


Fantastic Trash and Where To Find It

by Funkspiel



Series: A Collection of Odd Events (Tumblr Requests) [7]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Because Each Chapter is a Different Story, Please Check Description of Each Chapter for Warnings/Tags, Some Chapters Are Pure Fluff, Some Chapters Contain Non-Con/Rape, Some are NSFW
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-28
Updated: 2017-11-24
Packaged: 2018-10-24 20:11:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 29
Words: 30,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10748946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Funkspiel/pseuds/Funkspiel
Summary: Mini Fics and Prompt Fills for Fantastic Beasts and Where To Find Them (from my Tumblr account - Funkzpiel).Please check the description at the top of each chapter for warnings, because each chapter is a different request/prompt.Basically, if it's short, it's going here.





	1. Newt Gets Graves A Kitten

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [【翻译】I Miss You, Percival Graves](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13271868) by [liangdeyu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/liangdeyu/pseuds/liangdeyu)
  * Translation into 中文 available: [【翻译】Gotta Love A Man In Glasses](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13330689) by [liangdeyu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/liangdeyu/pseuds/liangdeyu)



> Summary: Newt Gets Graves a Kitten  
> Warnings: None  
> Pairing: Newt Scamander x Percival Graves (Gramander)

Newt gets Graves a kitten, because he knows how helpful animals are in the healing process and while it’s been a year since Grindelwald, some scars just don’t want to fade away. Those tricky scars of the heart. 

So he gets Graves a kitten. A small, fluffy kitten with blond wisps of hair and eyes too big for its head. Feeble in its youth. Its cries are more chirping than cat-like. He puts a big, floppy bow around its neck - the red ribbon practically bigger than its whole body and giving it the illusion of wings - before quietly slipping into the bedroom they share. 

“This is him,” Newt whispers into the little kitten’s too large ears, lifting him up and out to show him the slender back of the man laying in bed before them - dead asleep. “Now off you go, just like we discussed.”

And then he sets the little beast down and lets it loose. He watches as it determinedly wobbles to the bed, obviously set on a goal. Smiles as it sets its tiny claws into the soft silk of their sheets and climbs the tall rise of their bed. Walks closer to watch as the little fur ball then makes an unsteady beeline for the man in the bed – as though completely aware of what Newt had said to him when walking home with him this morning from the shelter.

He can’t stop himself from laughing when the little beast finally makes it to Graves’ face. It reaches out with a tiny paw and taps his face kindly, as though asking for attention, before finally flat out sitting on the man’s face.

Graves jerks up, eyes wide and hair sticking out in every which way, and blinks first at the now upended little fur ball on his pillow, then at Newt – bewildered and confused from waking. Newt only laughs harder as he watches Graves slowly try to connect the dots, everything moving slowly from sleep. His hands seem impossibly large as he gathers the struggling little kitten up to better study it.

Bright green eyes, blonde fluffy coat, tiny little paws and a soft little chin that it rests atop his knuckles, staring up at him. Newt sees it the moment something melts in Graves – too tired and too early to hide the emotion before Newt can see.

“Do you like him?” Newt asks, bemused as his partner’s eyes rise from over top the little cat to stare at him, baffled and sleepy.

“I don’t understand,” Graves says, and Newt feels another piece of his heart melt for the man currently naked and in his bed, holding a kitten and blinking sleepily at him.

“He’s yours.”

“He’s mine?” Graves repeats.

“Yes,” Newt chuckles.

“You got me a cat?” Graves asks, eyes falling back down on the little kitten.

Newt pauses, suddenly worried that this had been a rash decision. He shouldn’t have surprised his partner with something so big, that required such a commitment, without talking to him first. His thoughts begin to tail spin. His hands tremble as he wrings them.

“I, uh – yes. That is… if you want him?”

Graves just squints at him for a long moment before suddenly collapsing back into the bed again, taking the kitten with him.

“That’s great,” Graves mumbles into his pillow, the kitten tucked happily beneath his chin and purring merrily away. “Kitten Newt won’t leave me alone in my bed at hideously early hours every morning.”

Newt squawked, indignant; a huge and spreading smile on his face despite his affronted tone.

“You’re replacing me?!”

“Technically _you_ replaced yourself.”

“Move over, I’m coming in there.”

“Nope, I have kitten Newt now. There’s no more need for you in my bed,” Graves says, one eye cracking open to catch Newt’s gaze as he smiles, unable to hide his mirth.

“Oh you’re going to get it,” Newt growls as he stalks the bed.

“Not in front of kitten Newt!” Graves gasps, dramatic and scandalized.

Newt crawls onto the bed where he’d normally sleep and gently covers the little kitten’s eyes with one finger, ignoring its plaintive little meow as he leans forward to capture Graves’ lips in a soft, sleepy kiss.

“Thank you,” Graves whispers into his lips after their kiss.

Newt just kisses him again.


	2. A Dream or A Vision?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Grindelwald has an erotic dream of Graves fingering himself open for his dick.  
> Warnings: Non-Con/Rape, Mind Control  
> Pairing: Gellert Grindelwald x Percival Graves (Grindelgraves) (One-Sided)  
> Tags: Fingering, Non-Non/Rape, Mind Control, Imperius Curse

When Grindelwald falls asleep that night, he dreams of the man that he has been stalking these past few weeks. He dreams of the director laid out on silk sheets, his long sooty lashes moist with fat, frustrated tears as he hikes his knees up to his shoulders and reaches around to brush against his softly winking hole. Exposed and on display. The man is torn, caught between the force of Grindelwald’s _Imperio_ and his unending inner monologue of _no, no, no, no, no._

Grindelwald stands at the end of the bed and strokes himself languidly, and for Graves, that just makes it worse – unused to being watched. Unused to someone getting off at the mere sight of him.

Despite his struggles, Graves’ slick index finger enters him and when it does, he throws back his head and he keens because it _feels so good, why the fuck does it feel so good?_

It feels good because Grindelwald _makes_ it feel good. Because the lube he had slathered on the man’s fingers is filled with potent aphrodisiacs that make the poor director’s anus slacken and sing with pleasure. Makes him want to take more. A second finger slides in and Graves is actively crying now, his chest hitching in heavy, frustrated, desperate sobs. He looks stunning; Grindelwald tells him so.

“Stop,” Graves pleads, overwhelmed by the intrusion of his own fingers. “Stop!”

“But I’m not doing anything, dearest,” Grindelwald purrs. “It’s not my fingers in your ass.”

When Grindelwald wakes, he’s smirking – cock hard and heavy on his belly. A dream or a vision, it’s hard to tell; but he always thought himself the master of his own story.

He decides to call it a vision, fully intending to make it so.


	3. Gotta Love A Man In Glasses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt/Request: Okay so I saw your "graves wearing glasses, but only at home" headcanon and like i was just thinking... What if he forgot or his eyes were just so sore that he ended up wearing them to work... Like everyone would be like what the hell... And also really turned on...Basically, Graves is oblivious of his effect on people - or how sexy he is.  
> Warnings: Everyone gets horny real quick  
> Pairing(s): Graves x Aurors

He blamed it on the late night. He’d made the mistake of not going home. Of staying in his office and working on case files and attaching strings to maps and listing out all their leads _again_  in the hopes that something would make sense. Once he was sure everyone had left, he had slipped on his glasses - his eyes too sore to forego them in the name of vanity any longer.

He had paced his office a dozen times, but each pass by the collage of notes on his walls revealed nothing new. Weariness tugged on his bones. Frustration made his temples pulse. Eventually, he wound up at his desk - eyes on the map on the wall in front of him.

Eventually, his chin ended up on his crossed forearms. Eventually, he fell asleep.

The sound of Aurors greeting each other woke him.

“Good morning, O’Connell,” Tina said, her voice light and warm from her desk in the bullpen just outside his office. 

And just after her came the soft bell like laugh of her sister, Queenie.

“Good morning, boys!” She sang.

Graves jerked upright in his seat, panicked. Queenie was coming his way as she always did to say good morning - knowing Graves would already be working in his office. He had only a mere handful of moments to quickly spell away the dry, gross feeling from his mouth and straighten his hair, his clothes, before she opened his door and beamed at him - a parcel from her favorite bakery in hand. The one that sold the strangely shaped pastries that had an eerie resemblance to the creatures they fought so hard to keep secret.

“Good morning, Director…” She started with her normal cheer, only to trail off, wide eyed and frozen. Graves stiffened his back and continued with his ruse of reading over the documents he had hastily collected into his hands, a soft frown on his face as though deep in thought when in all actuality he was trying to calm his racing heart.

“Ah, Ms. Goldstein, good morning,” he said, eyes flicking up over the papers to meet hers - only to pause when he noticed her expression. “Everything quite alright?” 

She jolted, as though shaken awake. And flustered? Graves blinked, confused.

“Oh, um, yes - quite alright, thank you. It’s just… you surprised me is all.”

Graves’ felt his brows furrow. He quickly threw down a mental barricade, just in case - but not subtly enough to evade her notice. He saw her flinch ever so slightly, surprised. Did she know he had stayed the night? If she did, why hadn’t she laid into him? It was no secret that Picquery had ordered him _not_  to go overtime considering he was still healing, considering she gave him those orders _in front of his team_  so they could hear. So they could remind him. So they could keep him accountable.

Sneaky woman, his Madam President.

And no doubt, Tina had told Queenie - those sisters were thick as thieves. 

He went through a checklist in his mind that might have given him away - but his clothing _looked_  freshly pressed, as always. Thankfully his wardrobe wasn’t so diverse as for the similar (read: same) clothing to give him away. His hair was immaculate, his breath fresh. Maybe stubble? He rubbed at his jaw before he could stop himself, still too exhausted; the few hours of sleep he had managed to catch at his desk not enough to remove the swollen feeling from his eyes or the haze from his head. 

“Surprised? I’m here every morning, Ms. Goldstein,” he groused.

“Y-yes, of course, sir,” she said, a small smile on her lips as though she was very quickly becoming aware of some little joke he didn’t yet comprehend. Graves frowned. “I’ve just never seen your glasses before is all.”

Graves felt himself pale.

His fingers trembled as he reached for them, dreading the inevitable contact that would confirm they were in fact perched on his nose, right where he had left them. Graves grimaced.

“Ms. Goldstein, if we could keep this between–”

“ _Did you say glasses?”_  He heard Tina exclaim from her desk. And no sooner were those words loose in the air did he have a doorway full of Aurors, all shocked - and many of them with an expression Graves couldn’t quite place.

Hand at his forehead to hide his face, he waved his hand at them to dismiss the crowd at his door.

“Yes, yes, the secret’s out. Your director is officially an old man,” he growled in an attempt to hide his embarrassment. “Don’t we pay you lot for something around here? Get back to work.”

He watched them go - _and was O’Connell blushing_? - until only Tina remained. Despite his glare, she walked up to his desk with a large, intimidated smile and placed the brown parcel on his desk.

“For what it’s worth, I think they look quite dashing, Mr. Graves,” she said with a smile. “Tina thinks it makes you look sophisticated, though she’s too… _shy_  to say so. Newt’ll love’em. Brits love glasses,” she whispered conspiratorially. “I’d know.“

Graves felt a flush rise to his cheeks unbidden. The thought ‘ _they don’t make me look too old?’_  flashed across his mind unbidden. She smiled and shook her head.

“Oh no, honey,” she said, a curious and dark look in her normally bright eyes. “You don’t look old at all, don’t worry your pretty head about that. Your glasses making you look old should be the _least_  of your worries.” She said lightly as she turned to leave, only to pause at the doorway and wink at him over her shoulder. “Personally, I’d worry about your team’s productivity.”

And then she was gone, leaving him to blink owlishly at the place she once stood. A moment later, he was at the doorway, looking out at his Aurors - ready for their mocking. Instead, he found them in various states of distraction. Tina had her head in her hands. O’Connell was staring off into nothing. Smith’s pen was stuck on her parchment, ink slowly bleeding out and ruining her report. Cooper looked like he was having a midlife crisis.

Graves blinked. No laughter, no jokes. Did everyone spontaneously catch the flu or something? Flushed and glassy eyed and sweating, the lot of them. They all looked like they were dying…

What the bloody hell was going on?


	4. How To Take Care Of Newt Scamander

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Description: After a late night helping a mooncalf give birth, Graves finds Newt collapsed and exhausted - and decides to put his little Magizoologist to bed and take care of him.  
> Warning: None  
> Pairing: Percival Graves x Newt Scamander (Gramander)

It’s after a long, arduous night of labor with one of the mooncalves that Newt finally gets to crawl into his little makeshift bed in his shack. He wants for nothing more than the climb the ladder and join his partner in their plush king sized bed – to be wrapped in the strength of Graves’ arms and actually rest for a moment. But he knows that in a few short hours, the artificial sun in his case will rise and the day will begin anew for his creatures. For some of them, that would mean feeding and being attended to.

So he can’t go up to the bed he so desperately pines for. His little cot will have to do; just comfortable enough that he’d be able to nap and just _uncomfortable_ enough that he wouldn’t sleep for too long. He is too tall for the cot to be comfortable enough to sleep in for more than two hours. Exhausted as he is, though, he falls onto the thin mattress and fades away immediately.

He doesn’t wake when the seams of the case above him open. Doesn’t stir when long, elegant legs come climbing gracefully down the latter. Doesn’t see the fond look on his partner’s face when Graves comes to stand over his bedside and gently tuck back a lank, grimy curl from Newt’s brow.

He’s dead to the world as Percival gently loops his arms underneath Newt’s back and knees. Doesn’t so much as blink when his body is lifted easily from the cot and hefted into two strong arms. He does, however, curl into that familiar warmth – his nose tucked into freshly shaven skin and the heady scent of aftershave. His hands find the suspender straps that arch over Graves’ shoulders and latch onto them. Graves chuckles.

Gently, he carries Newt out of the case and to their bed. He tucks him in with a tenderness that only Dougal gets to witness; Graves unaware that the invisible little creature had followed him out of the case – eyes large and unblinking.

He waits on the edge of the bed until he is sure the young man will not wake before leaving him and venturing back down into the depths of the case. Not all of the creatures trust him as they do Newt, but they trust _Dougal_ who follows Graves everywhere. Invisible to the human eye, of course, but the creatures know he’s there. He calms them whenever Graves’ approaches wrong – accidentally, of course, the man doesn’t intend to frighten anything. But he’s too sure footed, too imposing. Too used to having to convey confidence as a leader to know that in the case, he appears more a predator than a caretaker.

But the food goes a long way in removing that obstacle. He feeds the creatures according to the chart on Newt’s wall – _only stopping for a moment to blink warily at the scrawled “werewolf” on one section of the chart_ – and doesn’t rest until every duty Newt would attend to in the morning is complete. And once he’s done, he makes sure that Newt’s new mooncalf is doing well on its first day in the world before returning to his lover in their bed.

He’s halfway through unbuttoning his shirt, his suspenders hanging loose around his hips, when finally Newt stirs in their bed – eyes slightly swollen from exhaustion.

“Wha-what?” Newt blinks, pouting cutely, confused from waking somewhere different from where he had laid down to sleep.

“It is…” Graves pauses for a moment to look at his watch, “Half past ten in the morning. Yes, I moved you up here. No, I did not let your creatures starve. Yes, your mooncalf is doing extraordinarily well. No, the Niffler did not get out. No, I won’t apologize for spiriting you away from your case before you ran yourself into the dirt and passed out in the Nundu’s territory or something equally horrifying. _Yes,_ I know the Nundu are just misunderstood. Yes, I fed them too. And no, you are not allowed to go back into your case yet,” he says, rapid fire, interrupting Newt every time the man tried to open his mouth to question him.

“Well that’s terribly rude,” Newt pouts, arms crossed in the bed.

“Which part? Stealing you and putting you to bed or interrupting you?”

“Do I have to choose?” Newt asks.

Graves laughs, a harsh and barking thing that Newt loves because he knows how rare it is.

“I suppose that’s fair,” Graves says mirthfully as he finally slides his shirt free from his shoulders, drawing Newt’s attention. The man is sweaty from work, his forearms down dirty from the enclosures and his cheeks smudged with dust and grime that makes Newt’s gut clench because it should be illegal for a man to stand dirty in the bedroom in nothing but pants and dangling suspenders. He has a faint sunburn on his nose and the tips of his ears, too pale from desk work and night raids. Newt shivers with want.

But he also never wants to leave the comfort of his bed again and he’s mostly sure that Graves had charmed the mattress somehow to make it extra fluffy – just to entice Newt to stay a little longer.

It’s working.

He shimmies a little deeper into the covers and watches as Graves sits on the bench at the end of their bed and goes about removing first his shoes, then his socks and garters. Newt whines, earning him a wry and knowing smirk over Graves’ shoulder.

“No,” Graves says, his voice an amused but firm purr in his chest.

“Rude,” Newt says, a twinkle in his eye.

Graves smiles.

“How about this,” Graves says as he stands, coming around the bed to stand at Newt’s bedside. He chuckles when the Magizoologist simply winds his fingers into his belt loops and tries to pull him into the bed. It doesn’t work. “I’m going to take a nice, long soak. If you’re still in this bed and _actually resting_ when I come back, I’ll let you do whatever you want.”

“Anything?” Newt asks, eyes wide.

Graves takes his now slack fingers from his belt loops and brings them to his mouth, kissing their tips at first before taking the last finger into his mouth and sucking it, just once.

“Anything.”

“You tease.”

Graves’ gaze becomes a hot, hungry thing above him - and not the least bit apologetic.

“How else am I supposed to get you to rest a little longer?” Graves asks. “I’m filthy, any how. I’ll be just a moment. What’s another ten or twenty minutes in bed, hmm?”

Newt watches Graves disappear into the bathroom. He listens to the gentle thrum of water filling the tub. His eyelids droop even as he fantasizes about how he’s going to turn the director into a puddle of overwhelmed goo beneath him when he’s out from his bath. His fingers go slack even as Dougal gently disappears from the room and returns to the case, satisfied that Newt’s new mate can well and truly take care of their kind, bumbling Magizoologist. He lets go of his invisibility in the hall, confident neither man will ever know he got out.

It’s only then that Dougal spots Graves through the doorway to the library and not in the bathroom at all. The little creature freezes, pinned beneath the weight of the man’s stare from overtop the paperwork he has in his lap – clad in a bathrobe and dark rimmed glasses. With a wink and a slender finger at his lips, he goes back to his paperwork and lets Newt sleep.

 _Yes,_ Dougal thinks _, he’s a good mate indeed._


	5. Graves' Big Secret: He Knits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt/Request: One of Graves' biggest passions, though he would never admit it out loud, is knitting. When Newt's birthday comes, he gets an anonymous gift that contains a pale blue sweater knit with love with a picture of a hippogriff.  
> Warnings: None  
> Pairing: Newt Scamander x Percival Graves (Gramander)

Healing from the physical damage Grindelwald had laid upon his body had turned out to be relatively simple. Not easy, no - Graves would never go so far as to say easy - but simple. Take these potions, rest for these many days, perform these exercises to regain the musculature lost, eat this many calories, drink this much water; orders, Graves could follow.

It was the _after_ part that he struggled with. _After_  his body had healed. _After_  all visible signs it had ever happened were gone. Graves had always been a very physical creature. So it was beyond his comprehension when he woke up one day feeling amazing only to realize that his heart was still sick. His body had never felt better, but he was loathe to leave his bed in the morning and dreaded even more the act of climbing into it at night - deterred to sleep lest he dream. Lest he fall back into that place…

So he works more; anything to keep him from his house and the silence that waited for him there. Anything to keep his mind off the gnawing sense of emptiness in his chest. Anything to keep him moving, lest he stop moving altogether.

And when Picquery catches onto to this and forces him to leave his office on time because _honestly, Graves, you just survived a madman. I’m not going to let you work yourself to death when only just got you back -_ Graves decides to start making daily walks through Central Park. At first only in the evenings but as time passes, he goes in the mornings too and it’s then that she meets her:

Julie-Ann Marie Smith.

He had been sitting on a park bench and staring out over the expanse of the park when she randomly sat next to him one day, this innocent little No-Maj. She had a curtain of cute silver curls atop her head and these huge spectacles that made his blue eyes two sizes too big to not be comical. She wore her Sunday best every day, her neck and wrists and ears outlined in modest jewelry.

“May I join you, young man?” She had asked quite kindly, her hands trembling where they held up her rather hefty looking bag.

Graves blinked, then made a point of scooting over to make room for her.

“Of course,” he said.

“Thank you.”

It turned out the woman came to the park to knit that day, and as Graves would later find, every day. He watched as she pulled out two long, wicked looking needles and a ball of soft yarn and simply began to knit right next to a total stranger.

He had thought about leaving from his morning walk early, only… he couldn’t stop watching her hands weave such plain and simple yarn into something long and grand and elaborate. There was something soothing in the gesture of her needles, in the way the fibers melded into something greater, in the way she created something out of nothing. Without realizing it, his fingers danced in the air from where they hung between his knees, hunched over as he was while watching her. He startled when she suddenly spoke.

“Would you like for me to teach you?”

“E-excuse me?”

“Knitting. Would you like for me to teach you?” She asked again, her eyes never lifting from her work, but still somehow growing gentle. “You look as though you’ve got a bit of an inch in your hands. I find it helps me keep my hands occupied when I get an inch. I tend to lately, since he passed.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Graves said.

“Thank you,” she smiled, and something glimmered behind the thick lens of her glasses.

“I’m afraid I must go,” Graves said, rising to his feet only to pause. He watched her for a moment, contemplating. Curious. “Maybe I’ll take you up on that offer another day.”

“I’m not hard to find,” she smiled. 

They end up making somewhat of a ritual together. Every morning, thirty minutes before work, Graves met Julie-Ann in the park at their bench. He brought coffee for himself, tea for her and two of those oddly shaped scones everyone’s been going on about for the both of them. She teaches him to knit and once he’s learned, they knit together every morning.

Its soothing for his hands and occupies his mind. He sleeps better after sitting beside his fireplace knitting until he’s weary. It helps him clear his head for his cases and actually makes it far easier for him to connect the dots between patterns in his criminal cases than ever before. It lowers his blood pressure and winds him down after a hard day at work. 

The only problem is - what does one do with several dozen blankets and scarves and mittens?

He thinks of Credence and the other Barebone children, and decides to give them away.

Time passes that way for a while, kind and patient and healing. He overhears Tina telling Queenie and Newt about how she’s been seeing a lot of orphans running around with finely knit sweaters and mittens and scarves and how wonderful that is - some organization must have finally taken an interest in New York’s children - and Graves can’t help but smile ever so slightly, proud. If Queenie catches his gaze as she hands him his coffee later and smiles at him strangely, neither of them comment on why.

But even so, Graves’ favorite reaction he has gotten to any of his creations has to be when Newt Scamander finds a simple brown package on his desk one day - no note, except for a simple tag that reads “Happy Birthday”. 

It is a simple sweater, nothing too elaborate - Graves isn’t that good yet. But it’s made of fine, soft yarn; the sort of sweater you relax in when it snows. And into the yarn, Graves had weaved a gentle spell that wove the image of a hippogriff into the front - grand and tall and proud. 

He overhears Newt asking quite nearly everyone who created such a kind gesture for him, but no one knows. And no one dares ask the director, because why would a man like Percival Graves own knitting needles?

Graves smiles over the rim of his cup, listening to them try and solve the mystery. It isn’t until Christmas that he’s found out.

“Mr. Graves,” Newt asks, lingering at his door. 

Graves blinks. It’s late and most of his people have left to go attend Christmas with their respective families. He thought it was only himself in the office at this point. But here Newt is, case in one hand, a familiar package in the other.

“Mr. Scamander,” Graves greets in return, eyes on the package and the familiar length of scarf tumbling slightly out its side.

Newt walks into his office, more confident as he goes.

“I didn’t realize anyone else was here,” Newt says, eyes wandering along the office as he goes.

“Neither did I,” Graves says. “You don’t have plans?”

“For Christmas? No. Going home didn’t quite pan out this year. Rarely does. You?”

“Nothing to go home to,” Graves says before he can stop himself. Silence reigns between them.

“Would you like to spend Christmas night with me, then?” Newt asks, and Graves blinks - surprised.

He accepts.

They spend their Christmas night in the employee lounge by the fire, exchanging polite conversation followed by kind stories. They discuss this and that. They talk about Theseus, their connection in common. They talk about Newt’s beasts and, as Newt becomes more and more comfortable over their fire whiskey, the goals he has for his creatures (and the illegal extent of his case within). 

Graves decides not to take note of it. It it Christmas after all.

It isn’t until late that night or perhaps early morning that Newt finally tottered onto his feet, case in hand, ready to depart for the night. Graves rose to his feet to see him off, determined to spend the night in his office - no point in going home at this hour.

“Well I had a lovely evening, Mr. Graves,” he says, “Thank you.”

“As did I,” Graves says. “Merry Christmas, Mr. Scamander.”

“Merry Christmas,” he says back, then bends to pick up his little package as he catches sight of it out of the corner of his eye. “Oh, I almost forgot!”

The scarf unravels from the package extravagantly - yellows and blacks and grays. Newt smiles fondly, his fingers digging into the soft yarn pleasantly. He looks up at Graves with a strange look.

“Your secret santa gift?” Graves bluffs.

“Yes,” Newt says.

Graves looks at the scarf in the man’s scarred hands and feels a plume of pride. He really likes the way the Hufflepuff themed scarf had turned out. He had tried to replicate the one Newt had said he lost, burned accidentally by a baby dragon he had in his care for a week. 

And from the look on Newt’s face, he very much likes the outcome too. Graves watches as the man takes the scarf in his hands and deftly winds it around his neck until his mouth and nose is all but lost in its warmth. But even so, Graves can tell the man is smiling. 

Graves doesn’t know it smells like him. Like whiskey and old books and rich cologne. Newt cherishes it.

“I suppose this is goodnight then,” Newt says, suddenly walking toward him. Graves doesn’t realize his intent until its too late - until there’s lips on his cheek, chaste and bashful.

And then they’re gone.

“Thank you for my scarf, Mr. Graves,” Newt says, blushing, as he walks away. Graves stiffens.

“How do you know it was me?” Graves challenges him, eyes on his back as he goes. Newt pauses, glances at him over his shoulder, and smiles.

“You’re the only one I told about my old scarf,” he says. “Because I knew you were the only one who wouldn’t make fun of me for losing another article of clothing to my creatures.”

Graves blinked. People made fun of him? But –

“Goodnight, _Percival_ ,” Newt said, his smile as warm as the whiskey in Graves’ belly. 

“Goodnight, _Newt_.”


	6. You Can Go to War, But You Can’t Come Back From It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt/Request: Could you possibly consider a Gramander fic where they were in a relationship during the war or just after but Newt broke up with Graves? Cue Newt coming to NY and seeing Graves for the first time (he's been trying to deny that he still loves him) and he thinks Graves is just being petty by pretending not to know him which makes Newt angry but then it turns out to be Grindelwald. And maybe a reunion after they find the real Graves?  
> Warnings: Mentions of Torture  
> Pairing: Newt Scamander x Percival Graves (Gramander)

In war, they had been lovers. Desperate shadows of men keeping each other warm in tiny bunks, kissing with teeth and tears and needy gasps to drown out the sound of dying men. 

After, they are who they are expected to go home and resume living the lives of men that had died the moment they set foot on a battlefield. They try. They try to Percival Graves and Newt Scamander again. They try to figure what that means. Who they are. Who they were. Coming home was harder than leaving, it turns out. 

You can go to war, but you can’t come back from it.

In searching for themselves, they lost each other. They write less. They forget - lost in the routine of lives that no longer fit them. But they bury themselves in work until those lives fit them like off brand clothes - not quite perfect, but close. So close even they believe it.

And then one day, Percival stops writing completely. 

It hurts more than he thought it would.

Newt buries himself in work. He figures it was inevitable. Wars end, love ebbs and even this cannot last forever. But he keeps the memory of young, trembling hands and eager brown eyes and reverent lips in his heart, because it is the last part of them that is real. That is _them._

He goes to New York and wonders if he might see him.

He sees him and wonders when he died in Percival Graves’ heart - what he did to deserve such cold, dispassionate looks. As though he were but a body to dispose of rather than the man that had once held him in a tight bunk the first night after he had killed a boy barely old enough to be a soldier in the name of heartland and freedom.

Percival Graves sentences him to death, but it is not his words rather his eyes that kill him. 

Newt is already dead to him, it would seem. 

Newt _feels_ dead…

But then Percival Graves tries to weaponize a child, and Newt wonders.

Percival Graves melts away, and Newt’s heart stops.

Percival Graves is nearly dead himself when they find him, and Newt is at his side in a heartbeat - his world awash in colors that he hadn’t realized had faded since the war, all vivid now with Graves in his arms once more. 

Graves is but a shadow beneath his hands. Newt can feel the outline of his ribs and the press of his knobby spine without pressing, and the solid weight of the soldier he had bedded is gone - feather light and fading in his arms. 

Newt cries, and its his tears that wake Graves.

He blinks, dazed - too exhausted to panic when he doesn’t immediately recognize that he’s been saved. But when he does, he relaxes in a way that terrifies the magizoologist.

“You noticed,” Graves breathes. “ _You came_.”

Newt smiles - an overwhelmed and trembling thing.

You can go to war, but you can’t come back from it; that hasn’t changed. 

But they try, and it’s easier together.


	7. Abernathy's Descent (Or: Abernathy Gets Fisted)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: “You can barely take three fingers…why don’t we try four?” with Abernathy and Percival or Abernathy and GrindelGraves. No non-con, but dub-con won't hurt ~~  
> Warnings: Fisting, Praise Kink  
> Pairing: Gellert Grindelwald (Grindel!Graves) x Abernathy

It had began innocently enough. One day, Director Graves just started paying more attention to him. It was shortly after Goldstein had been demoted, and Abernathy hadn’t thought anything of it until they came back from a raid and the director gave him a firm clasp on the shoulder.

“Well done, Abernathy,” he had rumbled innocently enough in his ear in passing – and that, well… Now that Abernathy was thinking about it, that had been the start of whatever _this_ was. After all, Director Graves’ golden pupil was gone and as is the way in all things, when one thing falls another rises to take its place.

Now Abernathy is the item of the director’s attentions – and it felt so good to finally be recognized. To be praised and asked after and pushed to be better. And then the attention changed. Gentle praise turned into rumbling purrs. The director no longer clapped him on the shoulder; rather he grasped him by the back of the neck instead and squeezed, thumbs soft and brushing and possessive.

A quick word in his office turned into a quick fuck across his desk, in the bathroom, in an ally, in a boardroom…

He wondered if Goldstein had experienced this, too; the insatiable appetite of Percival Graves.

The weight of the director’s dick splitting her open, the feeling of his fingers pulling her apart. Maybe. But the _roughness_ , he thinks as he spreads his legs a little wider, Graves reserves just for him. 

Because he knows Abernathy can take it. Trusts him to take it.

Abernathy’s currently got his forearms on the director’s desk, ass out and pert, split by Graves’ inquisitive fingers. He’s whining a sort of whine he never thought himself capable of just a few weeks ago. 

He’s done a lot of things he never thought himself capable of just a few weeks ago… _Like this._

“You can barely take three,” the directors says clinically, but Abernathy can recognize the _hunger_ just beneath. “Why not try for four though, shall we?”

Except he doesn’t stop at four.

He whispers spells that numb the muscles of Abernathy’s anus until he’s loose and gaping around the man’s wrist – the press of his bent thumb joint unforgiving against his prostate until he’s painting the ebony oak of the director’s desk ivory instead. And then he praises him like a precious thing, kissing and nipping his neck and shoulders while winding him up all over again.

Abernathy has never felt so wanted, so appreciated, so valued.

And when it’s revealed that Graves was Grindelwald after all, well… the dark wizard doesn’t remain in custody for long. 

Abernathy sees to that personally.


	8. Count of Monte Cristo Gramander AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Consider this - Count of Monte Cristo AU - Percival pretending he doesn’t love Newt anymore while hurting so much when seeing Newt with Grindewald. And Abernathy, Percival’s loyal adviser, telling him to not get revenge, but take Newt and run away :3  
> Warnings: None  
> Pairing(s): Percival Graves x Newt Scamander (Gramander), Gellert Grindelwald x Newt Scamander (Grindelnewt) (One-Sided)

When he slips into the carriage, it is not until the horses are already pulling them away that he notices the figure sitting across from him - painful it its familiarity. Oh the dreams he’s dreamt of this precise moment. Of Newt having recognized him. He squashes down the thought because there is no room for love in a vengeful heart.

“Percival?” Newt whispered, long fingers pale against the crisp black of his hood as he brought it slowly down around his shoulders - trembling. 

Newt has crossed the space between them before Graves can correct him. His lips are just as he remembers them - soft and shameless and eager. But there’s something new to them now. Desperation.

“They told me you were executed,” Newt said into the open part of his lips. His cheeks are wet against Graves’ finely groomed whiskers. 

“Did they?” He says, and its the coldness in his voice that makes Newt draw back. Something foreign pangs in Graves’ chest at the sight, but he doesn’t dwell on it. Instead, he turns to the window and demands that they stop the carriage. It is dark outside, the manor behind them.

“Back to the manor,” he says.

“- _No!”_

“Sir, you are mistaken, you must have imbibed too much–”

“–No, I know it is you, _I know it is you–_ ”

“–I am not this Percival–”

“–Stop it! Stop it! _”_ Newt finally yells, his voice barely more controlled than a sob, his fists hard against Graves’ chest. “ _Stop it.”_

And then he cries, and that strange feeling that Graves cannot identify grows. It makes him uncomfortable. He grimaces despite himself. The carriage turns around.

“What are you? A spirit? Some ghost sent to torment me?” Newt asks, raw and confused and desperately hopeful in the most painful way.

Graves considers him for a long moment.

“This Percival… you loved him?”

“Yes. With all my heart.”

“And for how long?”

“For all of my life,” Newt answers, leaning closer.

“And for how long did you wait after he died…” He asks, cruel in his blitheness, “before you married the count?”

Newt swallows, suddenly paler.

“That isn’t fair.”

The carriage pulls to a stop and Graves is quick to exit, one arm extended to guide Newt on his way.

Newt steps out of the carriage delicately. He wobbles, weak from excitement and sorrow, and flinches when Graves steadies him despite himself. Graves pulls away as though burned and will not meet his eyes.

Newt straightens, composes himself.

“You are right,” he says plainly. “You cannot be my Percival.”

“There you are, you said it yourself,” Graves says, already turning to enter his carriage and be away from his past. “Percival Graves is dead.”

Newt grabs him by his elbow and stops him. His eyes glimmer wetly, his freckles stark against his nose. 

“I never told you his last name.”


	9. "I'm Right Here"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summary: Newt helps Percival wake from a nightmare.  
> Warnings: Mention of Past Rape/Non-Con, Mention of Past Torture, PTSD  
> Pairing: Newt Scamander x Percival Graves (Gramander)

Newt wakes because his partner is whimpering. It takes him a moment - the sound just low enough that it pulls him from sleep softly, like a will-of-the-wisp in the woods - small and soft and beckoning. He sits up onto his forearms and looks to find him there, twisted up in the sheets and struggling minutely as though bound in chains rather than cotton. His brow is twisted into a pained and ugly grimace and there are fat tears clinging onto the ends of his long lashes.

His pillow is wet.

“Percival?” He asks, trying to wake him gently. “Percy?”

“N-no,” Graves whimpers, the sound thick with sleep and terror, making Newt lean close to hear him. “ _No, don’t!_ _”_

Newt gathers him up in his arms, the process eased by the blankets that twist around Graves’ torso, binding his arms. Newt had lost count of the times that Graves had accidentally struck him, lost to his night terrors. He doesn’t hold it against the man - Graves does that more than enough for the both of them. 

Newt knows about what Grindelwald had done to him. He knows about the beatings and the curses and the branding. He knows about the rapes. About the _rapists._

His fingers trace the puffy, raised edges of the deathly hollows symbol sitting proud and ugly on the back of Graves’ neck and he pulls the man a little closer until he can bury his nose into the scent of Graves’ hair.

He rocks him through it. He pets him and murmurs soft reassurances, hoping that Graves might hear him and follow the sound of his voice home. He waits.

Eventually, Graves wakes.

The first sound he makes is a small gasp – surprised. Shocked. Relieved. The second is another breath, this one ragged. Newt can feel the way it wracks his body when he inhales.

The third is a sob, and it breaks him.

He pulls his hands free of the sheets and grasps Newt’s forearms like he’s drowning. His fingers tremble. His grip is desperate. It hurts.

Normally when he wakes, Graves says nothing – unwilling to burden Newt with details of a pain neither of them can undo. Normally he just lets Newt hold him until he can fall back asleep.

Tonight, he speaks.

He grabs his forearms tight and when that’s not enough, he raises his hands to gently frame Newt’s jaw line – as though afraid he’ll disappear – and looks at him as though he was a ghost.

“ _You’re alive_ ,” he sobs, his breathing so erratic is takes the strength from his words in great shuddering gasps. “ _You’re alive.”_

Newt feels stricken; the words worse than any flailing punch Graves had ever dealt him.

He grabs one of the man’s quaking hands and lays it flat over the steady anchor of his heartbeat. With his other hand, he weaves his fingers through the sweaty strands at the back of Graves’ neck and pulls him forward until their foreheads touch. Their noses brush.

“I’m right here.”


	10. Newt's Praise Kink

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Newt with a praise kink, anyone?  
> Warnings: None  
> Pairing: Newt Scamander x Percival Graves (Gramander)  
> Tags: Praise Kink, Newt Wants The D

Newt is busy handing out bugs to his Occamy when he suddenly hears a softly murmurred, “ _You’re incredible_ ,” to his side. He blinks because surely he had not heard that right. No one ever called him _incredible_. Usually something more like “ _hindrance_ ” and “ _clutz_ ” and “ _walking disaster_ ” and “ _menace_ ”. 

But when he catches sight of Graves, he stops. Because the man is watching him work the same way someone might watch a painter; as if what he is doing is something precious and difficult and something to be in awe of. Newt feels his breath catch.

“You are quite skilled with your creatures, Mr. Scamander,” Graves says as he steps closer to better look at the Occamy hatchlings. “They’re so at peace with you, it really is remarkable. The amount of time you must have invested into their care to earn such trust - truly remarkable. You’re a man of many talents.”

“You think I’m remarkable?” Newt asks before he can stop himself. That grabs Graves’ attention and Newt is already averting his gaze, embarrassed. His cheeks are on fire and that only makes it worse.

“Of course. I’ve never seen anyone else do what you do. You’re truly one of a kind,” Graves says as though its obvious, as though he’s pointing out the color of the sky. When Newt finally raises his gaze, however - the look on the man’s face isn’t awestruck anymore.

It’s curious. _Oh no._

“Mr. Scamander, are you feeling alright? You look flush.”

Newt’s heart hammers in his chest.

“Y-yes, quite alright. I just… I’ve never had anyone call me anything kinder than “foolish” before.”

Graves blinks, and Newt sees it the moment things click into place in his head. He smiles - kind, but also hungry. The director takes a step forward and suddenly he’s in his space.

The Occamy chirp and purr in their nest, confused.

“A shame,” he says, the words hot against his lips, and Newt’s breathing hard. “Compliments suit you.”

And all Newt can think is ‘ _oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck_ ,’ because he’s _this close_  to pulling the man to the ground, ripping open his stupidly fine-tailored dress pants and seeing if Graves’ cock is as good at getting Newt riled up as his words.

Graves smiles and Newt can feel it against his lips when he growls, “Do you want to be my good boy?”


	11. Dark Creature!AU - Newt Gets A Cold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Description: Based in the Dark Creature!AU with Dragon!Newt and Werewolf!Graves (see "Perfect" for more). Newt catches a cold, and Graves takes care of him. He didn't even know dragons could catch colds...  
> Warnings: None  
> Pairings: Percival Graves x Newt Scamander (Gramander)  
> Tags: Sick Fic

When Newt sneezes, it catches them both by surprise. Graves sets down his papers, one brow quirked, and asks “Are you alright?”

“Yes, of course,” Newt says simply, brushing the question off, only to sneeze again - thrice. He sniffles.

“Can dragons get sick?” Graves asks, bewildered and concerned and a little amused.

“Dragons are just like any living creature,” he recites, trying to ignore the way his nose suddenly wants to run. “However, it is usually only younger dragons who fall ill…”

Graves is already on his feet - knees popping - and fetching Newt some tea. If ever there were a moment Newt loved the man, it was then. It is as though the realization that he sneezed had somehow opened the floodgates to a million more sensations. The exhaustion he had not realized had been crawling into his bones feels suddenly like lead beneath his skin. He slouches into his chair by the fire place and feels his eyelids droop. He accios a box of tissues to himself before he accidentally spoils Graves’ rich carpets with his snot and sneezes.

As though time had passed in a blink, Graves is suddenly in front of him - his own hands curling Newt’s around the soft, warm curve of a mug. Cinnamon tea and a splash of honey. Newt hadn’t even realized his throat had been hurting until he smelt the warm gust of scents from the tea. 

“Thank you,” he said, bewildered but comforted. He hadn’t been sick in years. Decades, honestly. Colds were human things, human trials…

“How did this happen then, if only the young of your kin get sick?” Graves asked as he drew a blanket across Newt’s lap. Newt purred.

“Usually the young fall ill because, well, _they’re young_  - but also the young tend to assume their human form more often. Curious about people. Insistent on being among them, learning from them. Stay in your human skin too long and some things - _like colds -_ are inevitable.”

He looked up at Graves and blinked, confused, when he found the man smiling and seated in the arm chair across from him. His smile could light a room and rare as it was, these genuine moments like this where Graves didn’t mind expressing himself freely, Newt felt himself preen knowing the man was his. That his smile was his. That his heart was his. 

“What?” Newt asked.

“You caught a cold for me?” Graves asked.

“What?” Newt asked again, even more bewildered.

“You stayed in your human form for so long so you could stay with me, be with me, live here with me - _you caught a cold for me?”_

Newt blinked, then smiled above the rim of his tea.

“I suppose I did.”


	12. Dark Creature!AU - Grindelwald Steals Newt's Treasure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Description: Based in the Dark Creature!AU with Dragon!Newt and Werewolf!Graves (see "Perfect" for more). Grindelwald has come for his creation and subsequently, Newt's Treasure.  
> Warnings: Non-Con Drugging, Kidnapping  
> Pairings: Percival Graves x Newt Scamander (Gramander)  
> Tags: Drugging, Kidnapping, Angst, Drug That Makes Graves Crazy Afraid

Newt watches Graves with a sort of despair he hasn’t felt in decades. They’re taking him away - his precious treasure - and there’s nothing he can do about it. The magic that holds him is strong and the poison they slipped him even stronger. He won’t die, but they don’t know that. 

But he won’t be able to save Graves either.

The man lashes out like a while animal. They dosed him with something too. Not a paralytic, but worse. He’s half mad with a fear he can’t control. His eyes are amber from sheer terror alone. Strangers grab at him with big hands and cruel, sneering faces and wands that bind him. He digs furrows into the dirt with his fingers and _he pleads_.

“No, no, _no_ ,” He breathes, pupils dilated and breath coming in shorter and shorter. “Don’t let them take me. Newt, don’t let them take me!”

Newt slumps a little further into the base of the tree he had staggered against, his limbs heavy - barely able to lift his chin from his chest to watch him. But he does watch him. He won’t look away. He’ll witness the consequences of his own foolishness - the price of his cockiness. He’ll witness them take his partner away. 

“Don’t let them take me,” Graves keens, half mad from fear - bound and struggling, occasionally getting an arm or a leg free only for another spell to lash it down. He flails and bites the hand that tries to cover his mouth with a chloroform rag. It has the desired effect of terrifying the man who tried it.

He falls to the ground, free for only a second, before another magic binds him instead - green and insidious and familiar. Grindelwald.

“Don’t let them take me,” Graves whimpers, eyes wide and looking at nothing - terrified. Panicking. “I don’t want to hurt anyone. They’re gonna to make me hurt people. _I don’t want to hurt anyone_.”

“Ssh, ssh, ssh, dear heart,” Grindelwald croons as he kneels beside his struggling captive, the backs of his knuckles gentle against Graves’ perspiring brow. He flinches and Grindelwald only smiles. “You’re destined for great things. You’re going to set the people free, love. Not hurt them.”

Amber eyes lock on Grindelwald. He’s trembling.

“You’ll make me hurt the No-Majs. MACUSA. My men.”

Grindelwald caresses him in an eerie reflection of comfort and smiles at him as though explaining the meaning of life to a small child - kind, patient and bemused.

“They’re hardly people, precious,” he says. “Nothing to worry about.”

The magic of his calming spell seeps into Graves’ brow before he can snarl a retort. Newt watches them carry him away, but not before Grindelwald gives him a mocking bow and says, “Thank you for the treasure, sir dragon. He’s quite the keeper indeed.”


	13. "Do Your Worst"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt (from FirebyFire): “You’ll never escape me.” Grindelwald’s voice is almost gentle like he is speaking to a child. He has Newt pinned to the wall, holding Newt’s hair in tight grip and yanking it back, his lips moving slowly on smooth skin on Newt’s throat while he speaks. “I have eyes everywhere, Mr. Scamander. Have you honestly thought you could escape me?”
> 
> Newt tries to move, but whatever spell Grindelwald has cast on him keeps him in place. Grindelwald chuckles at that, his magic slamming into Newt, crushing any attempts at running away. Almost playfully Grindelwald moves his hands along Newt’s sides, enjoying how Newt’s breath quickens, how he can only stare at Grindelwald with wide, filled with terror eyes. It’s sweet, really, how Newt has thought he could just life his live without Grindelwald taking his revenge. He is so lovely in his fear, scared beyond words. Grindelwald brushes his lips against Newt’s parted ones, whispering: “I’ll ruin you.”
> 
> Warnings: Non-Con/Rape, Dub-Con  
> Pairing(s): Gellert Grindelwald x Percival Graves (Grindelgraves) (One-Sided), Gellert Grindelwald x Newt Scamander (Grindelnewt) (One-Sided)  
> Tags: Fucking Machine, Voyeurism, Bottom!Graves

“My creatures are safe. You can’t use them against me. So go ahead. Do your worst.” Newt said plainly, trying (and failing) to control the tremble in his voice - making him sound just that much more adorable to Grindelwald. Such a pure child, trying to sound brave while looking down the maw of a wolf. Grindelwald grinned and pressed a little kiss to one corner of the little magizoologist’s frowning lips.

“Such a brave boy… But there’s more than one way to skin a cat, my dear,” Grindelwald said, voice like whiskey and just as dangerous. “Much more _fun_  ways. Let me show you.”

He takes him by the cuffs that keep his wrists twisted painfully at the small of his back and leads him through the mysterious estate Newt had woken up in. It’s rather homely in nature and as they pass by certain rooms he can see the man’s followers interacting - training, sleeping, eating, playing cards and discussing Merlin knew what. 

But the further they go, the more the noise from the man’s followers disappeared until they were in an entirely different wing of the estate. Empty, barren - all except for one room. Newt hears someone moving in the room at the end of the hall despite its closed doors. Moaning and whimpering and crying out - all beneath the steady whir of a noise Newt has never heard before. Not mechanical precisely, but something close.

Newt tries to still, alarmed, but Grindelwald just presses him forward. With a softly uttered spell, the doors swing openly - slowly, as though revealing some great treasure beyond - and suddenly Newt is slammed with the image of a man on the bed, upright and on his knees and riding some whirring machine that keeps thrusting a thick rubber cock up the man’s ass.

His arms are tied to the small of his back in a network of intricate leather strips and his thighs are kept bent tight to his calves by two strips of thick belts that prevent him from raising himself off the thrusting machine splitting him in two. And then to further the man’s agony, the machine itself appears to be strapped to him by various belts that loop around his thighs and waist, making escape impossible - although Newt is not sure if the man even seeks it.

His head is bowed, and even from the doorway Newt can see the tears dripping down that strong nose - trembling and heavy as they fall with a soft patter onto his knees. He keens, obviously exhausted. Obviously desperate. Obviously close.

With a soft, innocent twist of one hand, Grindelwald re-imbues the charm at the base of the dildo with more magical energy and as though recharged, it slams up into its captive with renewed vigor, tearing a scream from its rider, head thrown back, neck bare and - Newt’s eyes widen, finally able to recognize the man. Paler, thinner, exhausted but there’s no denying it.

_That’s Percival Graves._

The man doesn’t even seem to be aware of their presence. Lost to the driving force of the dick between his legs, cock painfully hard and angry looking as it weeps against his belly - bobbing with each thrust. The next noise the kidnapped director makes breaks Newt’s heart.

His pants tighten shamefully.

Fingers at his fly.

Newt’s heart slams in his chest.

“This will be so much more fun for the both of us, wouldn’t you agree?” Grindelwald purrs from over his shoulder, right into his ear, before slowly marching him forward.


	14. The Kidnapping of Percival Graves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: “Are you still awake? Maybe the drug wasn’t strong enough…” anyone + graves  
> Description: Grindelwald kidnaps Graves via spiking his drink at the bar.  
> Warnings: Non-Con Drugging/Drug Use, Kidnapping  
> Pairing: None  
> Tags: Drugging, Kidnapping, Angst

This bartender is his favorite bartender, because he keeps the drinks coming. A few other establishments he had tried tended to try to  _stop him_ at some point.  _Cut him off_ , they call it. But he doesn’t need someone to fucking tell him when he’s done. He’s the fucking Director of Magical Security,  _he knows when he’s fucking done, thank you very much,_ and there is not enough whiskey in the world right now to bring O’Shaughnessy back.

Every time he closes his eyes, he sees Grindelwald’s fucking goonies standing over the rookie - cruel smiles towering above a blank, pale face.

_He was so fucking young._

“Haven’t seen you in a while,” the bartender says as he gently takes Graves’ empty tumbler glass from his hands and refills it with shimmering, fiery gold. “I was starting the think you went cold turkey on me.”

“Tried,” Graves growls, throat tight from the bite of the fire whiskey. “Sobriety didn’t take.”

“Nice to have you back, anyhow,” the man says, eyes on the glass he’s begun to polish with a dirty white cloth. “Much better company than most of the wankers that come in here.”

Graves stills, eyes slowly drawing up over his glass. The man’s accent is American through and through, but  _nobody_ said  _wanker._ Not in the states. He hadn’t heard the word since, well… since the war. Theseus had quite the way with words.

“You got relatives in Britain?” He asks.

The bartender blinks, the cloth suddenly still in his hand.

“No.”

Graves’ feels his hand tighten around his glass, wand heavy where it sits in his pocket.

“Interesting choice of words.”

The bartender makes a show of thinking for a moment, confused, before a look of realization crosses his handsome young face. “Ah,  _wanker_. Yeah, turn of phrase I caught from my new flatmate. He’s a Brit. A foul-mouthed one at that.”

Graves feels some of the tension ease from his bones. Of course,  _of course_. He was getting paranoid. 

“You got a problem with Brits?” The man asks him curiously.

“Brits? No,” Graves says, sucking down another swallow of fire to kill the hollow numbness in his chest. But no matter how hot the whiskey burns him, it doesn’t melt the ice beneath his ribs. “One Brit specifically? Yes. Undoubtedly.”

“Wanna talk about it?”

“Would I be drinking alone if I wanted to talk about it?” Graves asks. 

The bartender smiles, obviously enjoying his snark rather than being offended by it. He shrugs, the low light of the bar catching the red in his hair quite nicely, before reaching for Graves’ glass again. He’s a spry,wiry thing. A bit baby faced. A strange look for a bartender, now that Graves was thinking about it.

“How about something different? You’re gonna burn your throat out drinking that swill.”

Graves squints at him, caught off guard, but finally shrugs. Why not - the taste didn’t matter, so long as it meant he’d sleep tonight. He lets his gaze draw down to a paper on the counter-top while the barkeep walks away with his glass to pull some random bottle down from his stock.

Today, the headlines are about the upcoming magical election. Tomorrow, they’ll talk about Grindelwald and the recent raid on the bank his flunkies pulled. But O’Shaugnessy won’t be in there, he knows. Can’t let the public know that aurors can die, after all. Makes the government look weak. He burns the paper with a simple spell, and when the bartender comes back, he’s frowning.

“I was reading that,” the barkeep says.

“Find another,” Graves shrugs, not even remotely remorseful. 

The barkeep sighs, eyes him for a moment as if assessing something - and Graves swears that if the man tries to cut him off, he’ll cut  _him_  off at the legs. As though sensing it, the bartender places the glass down in front of him.

“Now  _this_  is exactly what you’re looking for, fella.”

“That so?” Graves asks and takes his first sip.

It’s strong like whiskey but soft like honey – thick and smooth and comforting on his fire scorched throat. He sighs after it goes down, heavy on his belly like a dream.

The bartender smiles.

“Told you.”

Graves nods at him in agreement.

“Say, you work at MACUSA, don’t you,” the bartender asks. Graves’ stiffens minutely. He has no desire to talk about work, but evidently the man’s keen on making it unavoidable.

“Yes. I do.”

“Between you and me,” the bartender says, leaning onto the counter between them with his elbows as if they’re old friends having a chat rather than one stranger assisting another stranger get so sloshed he’ll finally sleep. “This Grindelwald fella. He as nasty as the papers say?”

“Nasty,” Graves says, rolling the word on his tongue as if evaluating its taste in his mouth, as though it had a flavor. “No, nasty isn’t the word.”

“Oh really?”

“Deplorable. Immoral.  Sadistic. Twisted. Insane. Sociopathic,” Graves lists, eyes on his glass. “ **Murderer.** I can think of plenty more suitable words to describe that bastard than nasty.”

“Do tell,” the bartender purrs, and there’s a sudden _lit_ to the man’s words. Something nagging, something familiar. Graves’ glances up to catch the man’s eyes, and the world blurs slowly with movement – his vision taking a second to keep up with his gaze. He lists slightly left before jerking back straight on his stool. Perhaps that last drink, whatever it was, had crossed the line. With a scowl, he reaches into his pocket to fetch his money and struggles to get his fingers through the fabric.

“Maybe another night,” he says slowly, careful to be precise in his wording lest he slur.

When he finally gets his hand free, it knocks loose change from his pocket. The tinkling of coins on hardwood is deafeningly loud and he looks around, afraid someone might have seen him make a fool of himself, only _no one’s there_. The bar is suddenly empty but for the two of them. It makes his hackles rise, small hairs stiff on the back of his neck.

“You alright there, buddy?” The bartender asks, concerned, but all Graves can see is his smile – long and fake and amused.

“Fine,” he mutters, heart slowly beginning to pound in his chest. “M’fine.”

That last drink _definitely_ had crossed the line, he decides, except… no, he had only had three or four. He knew himself, he knew his body. That shouldn’t have been enough – not with the way he drank lately. He frowns, his gaze slowly drifting to the bartender. Graves blinkes. He was having trouble focusing. His limbs felt fuzzy. Heavy. He really wants to lay down.

 _Fuck_.

“Still awake?” The bartender drawls in a malicious, contented purr – his youthful kindness and gentle smiles long gone. “Maybe the drug wasn’t strong enough.”

Graves stumbles back, the sound of the stool collapsing behind him so loud it made him jump. He trips over it and just barely manages to catch himself on a nearby table. Everything feels slow; like moving through water. He tries to focus on disapparating, but his magic feels like a hoard of fireflies beneath his skin and he can’t catch enough of them to make it work. Tiny and scattered and deaf to his call. He looks up when he realizes the bartender has already come out from behind the bar, stalking him slowly – obviously unconcerned that Graves might get away.

He’s not so baby faced anymore.

Graves moves to run for the door, but his feet don’t cooperate. He takes a chair with him on the way down. His wrists ache and so does his nose, but the floor is blessedly cool beneath his cheek. He blinks. _Why is he on the floor?_

“Struggle all you want,” the man says, his tone distinctly British now, catching Graves’ attention as he falls into a squat beside him. There’s something wrong with the man’s face. He gasps as he watches the bartender’s face melt before his very eyes – twisting and morphing elegantly until he’s suddenly staring at a very, very familiar face.

_His own face._

Grindelwald smiles cruelly, and on the floor, Graves shudders.

“I’ve been watching you for a while, you now,” Grindelwald muses. “Watching you waste away beneath the hefty weight of your station. Who knew you would be so easy to catch? A powerful foe, without a doubt – but kill one of your men and hand you a drink? _Voila_. Putty in my hand. For a man whose sole responsibility is protecting your country, you sure did a piss-poor job of protecting _yourself,_ let alone your team or your government. Weary as you are, though, it was only a matter of time before you fell. All that weight on one man’s shoulders,” Grindelwald tsked, the sound loud in Graves’ ears. “Not good for your health, Percy.”

“W-what did you do to me?” Graves barely slurs, eyes rolling wearily in his sockets, exhausted. He struggles to stay awake.

“You wanted something to help you sleep, didn’t you?” Grindelwald asks. Graves’ eyes widen. He…Had the man snuck inside his mind and Graves _not even notice?_ Catching his frantic line of thought, Grindelwald grinned, twisting his stolen face into something malicious and foreign. “You can rest now, director. I’ll take it from here.”

Graves’ eyelids fluttered. He raged against his heavy, useless body, but once his doppelganger gently closed his eyes with kind fingers, Graves found he didn’t have the energy to open them again.

“Sweet dreams.”


	15. Newt Scamander, Director of Magical Creature Control

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt/Request: What are your thoughts about Head of Department for Magical Beasts Newt Scamander and HOD for DMLE Percival Graves where they headbutt a lot on many issues esp. on Creatures Law & Newt always flinging his safety away just to rescue a creature when Graves explicitly tells him not to do it? Do you think there will be romance btwn them? Or they're too busy huffing & puffing @ each other to notice the attraction?  
> Warnings: Almost Character Death, Injury/Violence  
> Pairing: Percival Graves x Newt Scamander (Gramander)

The moment Picquery reveals to Graves that this new department is not only going to be created but led by Newt motherfucking Scamander, he nearly has a stroke. He literally has to sit down.

> “You’re messing with me.”
> 
> “I don’t play games, Percival,” Picquery says cooly, but he can see her amusement in the tiniest uptick of one corner of her mouth - her eyes absolutely mirthful.
> 
> “Then you’re  _punishing me_ ,” he says instead, one hand over his face, trying to knead away to growing headache pushing behind his eyes.
> 
> “Newt Scamander will be joining this government, Percival,” she says and by her tone he knows its set in stone. “And I am tasking you to co-lead his first few field missions, whatever they might be, to judge his mettle as a leader.”
> 
> “I don’t need to go into the field with him to tell you he’s reckless and inconsiderate of any lives around him that aren’t magical creatures, Sera. I read the reports. Everyone seems to conveniently forget the man brought an unstable contraption to hold them into a city of No-Majs, then failed to keep that case secure,” Graves says, a vein slowly rising in his temple, pulsing madly. “He even  _lost_  that case to a No-Maj -  _a pudgy No-Maj no less -_ and when said man was attacked by a creature of his whose venom could have resulted in ‘fire from one’s anus’, he nearly  _left him_. Everyone coos at him because he’s lanky and awkward and has these ridiculously adorable doe eyes but I know better, Sera. You give him a task force and he’s going to get somebody killed.”
> 
> Picquery raises a brow at him.
> 
> “You’re going to make me do it anyway,” Percival sighs.
> 
> “Indeed. We are legally obligated to give the man a three mission trial period, barring any _significant_ signs of inadequacy. He’s the most knowledgeable wizard of our kind in this matter, Percival. It would be foolish not to consider him – even if his ‘doe eyes’ are so misleading, as you say,” and Graves can tell from her tone that not only had she not missed that turn of phrase, she found it more than a little amusing.
> 
> Graves scowled and crossed his arms, legs splayed and altogether looking more a child than a Director of a prestigious office of power.
> 
> “I don’t see why we couldn’t have just made the man a consultant,” he mutters crossly.
> 
> “Would you have listened to what he had to say if he was just a consultant?”
> 
> Graves purses his lips.
> 
> “The first operation is a sting on a black market ring, Director,” she says. “I do suggest you prepare yourself.”

Graves and Newt bicker about _everything_ , ranging anywhere from when to have their meetings -  

> “Six in the morning is ridiculous, Percival—“
> 
> “—Director,” Graves corrects him, “And it is not ‘ridiculous’ Mr. Scamander. If you can’t be available at the drop of a hat you’ll hardly be of any use in an emergency.”
> 
> “Director Scamander, if we’re playing that game,” Newt says simply, “And I have to attend to my creatures in the early morning, you know that. It’s technically part of my job, regardless. Seeing as I’m the Head of Magical Creature Control, which by the by, that’s a horrible name!”

To what to have for lunch –

> “Perhaps we could order food in? I recently found this lovely little—“ Newt starts.
> 
> “—No.” Graves says, not even coldly. Just simply, as though answering an innocuous question rather than shutting someone down completely for no reason.
> 
> “But you don’t even know what the place is yet,” Newt says.

To the importance of safety; specifically, _Newt’s_ safety.

> “I can decide for myself whether or not to risk my own safety, Percival. I don’t need someone telling me my own worth!”
> 
> “Director,” Graves corrects, “And you are _infuriating_. I saved your hide and instead of thanking me as you should or even feeling an inkling of remorse for abandoning your team to chase the leader yourself, you yell at me for saving you.”
> 
> “I told you I had it. I told you to stay with the other Aurors and keep the creatures safe!”
> 
> “The creatures are not my priority, Newt!” Graves bellows. “You are.”
> 
> “Picquery told you to listen to my orders,” Newt seethes, cold and scowling, his bandaged hand trembling in a fist at his side.
> 
> “And your orders would have gotten you killed, Scamander,” Graves growls, stepping forward and into Newt’s space. “She told me to listen to you, yes, but she also told me to evaluate you as a leader. And leaders don’t abandon their team to coral panicked creatures they don’t understand just because you think this one escaping man might have information on a creature they may or may not have in their possession. Your life and the lives of my men – _people_ , Newt, _who have families_ – are worth more than the less than credible word of some low life thug.”
> 
> “I came here to better the lives of creatures,” Newt says, voice soft but no less angry or remorseful.
> 
> “That’s what I told Picquery,” Graves sneers, nose wrinkled. “But no one ever listens to me.”

When they go their separate ways after the mission is done and all the paperwork is filled, Graves half expects Picquery to storm in his office at any moment and scold him because no doubt the Magizoologist quit after that.

> A knock at the door and Graves just stares into his fire place and takes another sip of Fire Whiskey before letting out a soft “come in”.
> 
> The steps are too quiet, too hesitant and too uncoordinated to be Seraphina’s. He turns and feels the muscles of his shoulder instantly tense at the sight of one very inebriated Newt Scamander.
> 
> “You’re drunk,” Graves says blandly, unimpressed when Newt merely scowls at him with petulant  ~~adorable~~ anger and jabs a shaky finger in his direction.
> 
> “You’re drinking,” he says, accusatory.
> 
> “I’m always drinking,” Graves says. “It hardly matters anymore.”
> 
> Newt doesn’t seem to know what to do with that information. Graves enjoys knocking him off balance.
> 
> “You, however, _don’t_ drink,” Graves says, turning to face the man completely. “So why start now?”
> 
> “I was t-thinking about quitting,” Newt grumbles. “This job, that is. Not drinking.”
> 
> “And so drinking was supposed to help that along?”
> 
> “I didn’t go drinking to help make my decision,” Newt slurs, staggering right to rest his hip inelegantly against Graves’ desk – accidentally knocking one or two immaculately placed items over. Graves sighs even as Newt mutters a soft, surprised “sorry” to his desk as though it were a stranger he had bumped into on the streets. “I went drinking to cope with my decision.”
> 
> “And what decision was that?”
> 
> “The decision to continue working with _you_ , you wanking arse.”
> 
> “Lovely,” Graves says into his own glass and drains it to its bottom.
> 
> “And the decision to apologize,” Newt finally says, voice softer, drawing Graves’ gaze. “You’re right. I t-tend to put creatures first. No one else will, so…”
> 
> Despite himself, Graves feels a pang of sympathy – understanding the plight of a man just trying to do the right thing, only to fuck everything up. He crosses the room to his personal stock of whiskey and pours himself another finger of liquid comfort. He’d offer one to Scamander if the man weren’t already sloshed.
> 
> He has no wish to wipe vomit from his floor tonight, even with magic.
> 
> “I appreciate the sentiment, but an apology isn’t enough,” he says and catches the way the man bristles like a cat automatically, stung by his rejection. Graves holds up a hand to stop him when Newt opens his mouth to retort. “You have to _act_ on that apology, Newt. You have to be better. Because what you’re apologizing for isn’t accidentally offending me in some way. It’s for endangering the lives of my team, including yourself – and ‘sorry’ doesn’t cut it. You want to show me you’re sorry? Start taking this position you’ve been given seriously.”
> 
> “I _am_ taking it seriously,” Newt growls through his teeth.
> 
> “For your creatures, yes, I have no doubt. But you can’t only be here for your creatures. You need to be here for _people_ too. Just as much to educate them on how creatures are wonderful and how to integrate them into the secrets of our society as to teach them how to protect themselves and others. I’d have figured you knew that, considering that’s the whole point of your book.”
> 
> “You read my book?”
> 
> “Of course I read your book,” Graves says and gestures boredly to something behind the other man, drawing Newt’s attention to his copy sitting on his shelf. “It’s an invaluable resource to my work and the safety of my team, just as you are an invaluable resource to this government.”
> 
> “ _Invaluable_ … You don’t hate me?”
> 
> Graves snorts into his glass.
> 
> “You personally? No. But you make my job decidedly harder, Scamander. I do hate that.”
> 
> Newt purses his lips, at a loss.
> 
> “Well, you,” he says suddenly, pointing his finger at Graves. “Need to learn that creatures also need to be protected on these missions. They’re important too! They’re the whole reason why we’re out there!”
> 
> “You’re right,” Graves concedes simply, silently relishing the surprised look he gets from Newt. “I have some adapting to do, too. We’ll figure it out. If you’re sticking around, that is.”
> 
> “I’m not going anywhere, Percival.”
> 
> “Director,” Graves corrects playfully, and Newt smiles.

Newt doesn’t quit. In fact, he gets better – slowly. He learns the significance of his actions. When to put the safety of creatures first and when to step back and ensure the safety of his men. He and Graves begin to agree more – slowly. They don’t argue over lunch. They find a way to comprise when creating mission plans. He trusts Newt more and more with his Aurors and their safety. And Newt trusts Graves more and more to keep the safety of magical creatures in mind.

They make a good team. And as Newt grows, so does his department. He needs Graves and his Aurors less and less as his own task force and leadership skills take shape. And although Graves is happy to return to something even remotely resembling normalcy, a part of him does miss the thrill of working with Newt more closely.

They catch breakfast together and collaborate in order to train their staff – Graves training Newt’s men in combat and Newt training Graves’ men in how to approach and handle creatures. And time passes that way. Simply, fluidly.

And then Grindelwald returns – an army of dark creatures at his beck and call.

> “Simmons, watch your six,” Newt calls, wand striking viciously at an approaching enemy even as he keeps track of the progress of his men. “Johnson, please do help Abernathy calm that Wampus, would you?”
> 
> The men and women of his team follow his orders without question. He feels strong, confident – a completely different man by comparison to the one who led that first mission nearly a year ago. Once his enemy is down, he evaluates Johnson, Abernathy and Simmon’s progress with the Wampus. Already they have the creature remarkably calmer – each using the subtle spells and body language that Newt had taught them in order to ease the creature’s mind. Newt grins.
> 
> “Good work!” He calls out. “Keep an eye on that Wampus and make sure the next group takes it somewhere safe. I’m pushing ahead to Alpha Team.”
> 
> “Yes, sir!”
> 
> He takes the steps three at a time. The hallways are oddly barren all of a sudden. Silent. He blinks.
> 
> “That’s not right,” he mutters under his breath as he rounds a corner and unwittingly passes through a barrier he hadn’t seen. Immediately he is blasted with a cacophony of sounds the barrier had been hiding. Screams and the sizzling of spell work and the howling of mad men. He sees Tina on the far side of the room, locked in heated combat with a wizard twice her size but obviously half her smarts. She has the advantage, it’s just a matter of time. He sees Jenkins and O’Brien fighting in lockstep with another two goons – one of them is bleeding from a large gash in his bicep, but it doesn’t appear to be slowing him down.
> 
> Smith is lying on his back, glassy eyes staring at nothing. Newt swallows.
> 
> And at the center of the room, Graves is fighting with Grindelwald’s second in command. His footwork is uncanny, Newt always thought as much. Most wizards cast magic one of two ways – they plant their feet or they run and hope for the best over their shoulder. But Graves casts magic while he moves; slowly, deliberately – the movement of his wand and his hand just as precise and calculated as the stepping of his feet. He keeps his target off balance with an ease that Newt can’t help but admire.
> 
> “Where is he?” He hears Graves snarl.
> 
> “Miss him?” Grindelwald’s second sneers, cruel. “I bet you do. I bet you miss the way he beat you. The way he put you in your place. You’re practically trembling for it, aren’t you – so excited to return beneath his shoe.”
> 
> And because he’s watching Graves, lost in this new information, he doesn’t notice Grindelwald approaching until the man already has him flying across the room and into a marble pillar. He shouts.
> 
> “Director Scamander,” Grindelwald purrs, eyes glinting. “Has quite a ring to it, doesn’t it?”
> 
> “Grindelwald,” Newt snarls and scrambles to his feet, ribs aching.
> 
> “I expected better from the Director of Magical Creature Control. You haven’t caught onto nearly as many trafficking rings as I expected you would, given your passion for creatures. Perhaps you don’t care as much as you say.”
> 
> “Shut up!”
> 
> He flings several spells Grindelwald’s way, but the dark wizard simply deflects them.
> 
> “After tonight, the government will surely revoke any laws you managed to pass to allow these creatures in the states,” Grindelwald continues, moving all the while – eerily reminiscent of Graves. Newt shudders. “You can’t obliviate an entire city again. Someone must be held accountable. Perhaps this will finally be the last straw. Perhaps wizards will finally stand tall.”
> 
> When Grindelwald strikes, it’s with a precision so dark and so fast, Newt doesn’t even realize the man had cast a spell until he was sinking to his knees – bound and exhausted, energy slipping away through the magic that held him.
> 
> “I did not forget the way you foiled all my intricately laid plans, Newton,” Grindelwald purrs, obviously enjoying Newt’s weak struggles. “The way your creature held me down. The way you tore away my face. And so it is with the creatures that you used against me that I will bring down MACUSA and this city. And you only have yourself to thank for that.”
> 
> Grindelwald raises his wand level with Newt’s face.
> 
> Newt closes his eyes.
> 
> “Not that you’ll get to see it,” Grindelwald mocks.
> 
> Everything feels oddly silent, oddly slow. Newt breathes.
> 
> “ _Diffindo_.”
> 
> He’s being knocked aside, but not by any spell. He opens his eyes when he hears a scream and it’s not his own. There’s red on the floor. So much red.
> 
> He looks with wide eyes, frozen by the sight of Percival Graves crouched above him – eyes furious and teeth bared and a snarl locked in his chest.
> 
> “ _Confringo_ ,” Graves growls, one hand extended, and the blast is so powerful Newt hears the wet sound of Grindelwald’s head on the far pillar. The dark wizard slumps to the floor, unconscious, and is quickly bound by an Auror.
> 
> Something wet patters onto Newt’s lap – something red.
> 
> “P-Percival,” Newt says weakly.
> 
> “Director,” Graves corrects, teeth red when he smiles, eyes blurry and unfocused, and finally falls to his side – blood blossoming wickedly across his chest.
> 
> “No!”
> 
> Newt is on his haunches and beside the man in seconds, healing spells already on his fingertips despite his exhaustion. The battle is won. Aurors scramble around them – rushing to get the Medical Team they had on standby. Newt stays with the man until they arrive and ignores the steady draining of color from Graves’ skin. The man is barely conscious. 
> 
> Disoriented. He stares up at the ceiling with glassy eyes that remind Newt of Smith, so Newt shakes him.
> 
> “Stay with me,” Newt says.
> 
> “M’not going anywhere,” he slurs.

He doesn’t go anywhere. Newt’s at his bedside when he finally wakes - a wicked scar spanning the broad stretch of his chest. Pink and pearly and painful. 

Newt is furious.

> “Don’t ever do that again!” He growls, trying to hold back the burning growing in his eyes. Graves blinks at him fuzzily, not quite altogether there beneath the weight of the painkillers he’s on. Struggling to focus.
> 
> “I should have known you wouldn’t thank me,” Graves says, a smile on his lips. “I save your hide again and you never thank me.”
> 
> Newt frowns, anger growing.
> 
> “How come you get to be reckless and I don’t?” Newt asks, trembling.
> 
> “I wasn’t being reckless, Newt,” Graves says.
> 
> “How is this not reckless?!” Newt retorts, fingers on Graves’ scar.
> 
> Graves’ hand covers his and Newt stills.
> 
> “You took this job to protect creatures. To build a world of peace for creatures and humans alike,” Graves says softly. “I took this job to protect the people who make that sort of change happen. Those people – _you_ – are my priority. I knew what I was doing.”
> 
> “T-that,” Newt stammers, drawing Graves’ gaze. Then suddenly, the lithe Magizoologist punches him in the bicep. Graves groans. “That makes it worse!”
> 
> “What?” Graves yelps, at a loss.
> 
> “A year ago, you told me I was invaluable,” Newt says, trembling.
> 
> “I did,” Graves concedes. “That’s why I—“
> 
> “ _You_ are invaluable too,” Newt says. “You don’t get to decide the worth of your life. You don’t get to just throw it away. People are counting on you. I-I’m counting on you.”
> 
> “Newt—“
> 
> “No! You don’t get to make rules for others and not follow them yourself,” he says.
> 
> The room falls silent.
> 
> “You’re right,” Graves says gently. “I’m sorry.”
> 
> For a long moment, Newt says nothing. But neither does he pull his hand away. Graves waits. He knows Newt can feel the nervous tempo of his heartbeat.
> 
> “I appreciate the sentiment, but an apology isn’t enough,” Newt says finally. Graves smiles weakly. “You have to act on that apology, Director.”
> 
> “Percival,” Graves corrects.
> 
> Newt smiles.


	16. Graves Plays Piano

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Graves can play the piano. He hadn’t for a while though. But after the whole Grindelwald fiasco he picked it up again. If he’s at home and not working, he’s most likely playing. It serves as his escape from reality.  
> Warnings: Mention of PTSD  
> Pairings: None  
> Tags: Coping with PTSD

He starts because the healers tell him it’ll be good for the recovery of his shattered fingers. At first it hurts like everything hurts. His knuckles ache and his joints burn and he struggles to stretch his fingers along the keys like he used to.

He continues, because music drowns out the yelling in his head that steadily grows throughout the day. He plays, because slowly - he heals. His fingers reach further, play longer, move faster.

He doesn’t stop even after his hands heal because he sleeps better after he plays. He wakes up happier and winds down after work far easier. 

Others can see it in the color of his skin and the shine of his hair and the strong flex of his hands. They commend him for his strength. They praise him for his drive. Grindelwald could not take that from him, they say.

But it is this - _the keys beneath his fingers, the sounds he molds into crescendos_ \- that is actually sacred. The one aspect of himself that the dark wizard had not warped and twisted to his own machinations.

He plays, and slowly, Grindelwald fades beneath gentle prayer of his sheet music. 


	17. De-Aged!Credence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based off QuestionArtBox's gorgeous piece of art:  
> http://questionartbox.tumblr.com/post/159951913335/funkzpiel-questionartbox-helpful-and-easy-to
> 
> Warnings: Mention of Torture, Mention of Child Abuse  
> Pairings: None (Maybe Gramander if you squint?)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update: QuestionArtBox _slayed_ this mini fic with an expanded comic and I am forever in tears from how amazing and beautiful it is, please check it out:  
>  http://questionartbox.tumblr.com/post/160314441680/a-blessing-i-dont-deserve-in-which-newt-and

_“The best way to save him is to take him back to the start and let him try again; but this time, let him flourish.”_  
\- Newt Scamander  
  
They do it together. After they find Credence, weak and writhing and angry and hurting - they sacrifice everything to save him. They make him small again. Young, so that the pain never happened. 

Newt shows him how to protect and appreciate life, and Percival shows him how to use and cultivate great magic. They’re a team to be reckoned with, and already they know they are raising a wizard that will make a distinct mark upon history. His heart is huge and pure and giving. His magic is larger than his years and his wisdom comes from a hurt he can’t remember.

Credence is a blessing they don’t deserve.

Newt sees the boy and he smiles - because he sees life given a second chance. He sees a rebellious flower growing between the cracks of a sidewalk, determined to be beautiful. He sees kindness in the face of cruelty. He sees power wrapped in fragile skin. He sees hope for their future in the hands of a little boy who wants everyone to smile - unknowing that for years, he never did.

But Graves only sees the boy - _the original boy_ \- he failed to protect. He sees the boy that they had to erase and make anew in order to save; all because a madman stole his face. And in seeing Credence, he sees the man that ruined both of them. He feels the whip again, and the curses, and the pain.

Every failure, every breath that didn’t end in death, every second that was taken from him.

It leaves him standing in his office, looking at nothing. Trembling and wide eyed and dying inside. Lost.

Credence finds him this way. Pulls him into a chair where he might climb into his lap and hug him properly. Hugs always made Credence feel better.

So he gives all his hugs to Mr. Graves, and hopes he’ll come back soon.

And when he does - when Mr. Graves arms tighten ever so slightly around Credence, trembling and fragile - the boy just smiles and hugs him tighter, unwilling to lose him again. 

Rebellious, like a flower growing between the cracks of a sidewalk.


	18. To Meet My Other

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summary: Graves develops a second personality while hunting down Grindelwald and unintentionally becomes him.  
> Warnings: Gaslighting, Mental Instability, Mental Illness, Losing Time, Captivity/Torture

One night, while he’s up late and reading about the latest string of Grindelwald’s killings, Graves muses on what drove the man to madness. What could possibly justify _genocide_?

He understands the initial principle of the man’s belief. Hell, in the darkest part of his heart - the part he doesn’t like to think about or admit to - he even sympathizes. He hates hiding his magic. He thinks about how much more helpful he could have been during the war, if their abilities and the extent to which they could help had not been so heavily curtailed. He understands. Magic is a gift, not a curse. Why should they hide it?

But he _knows_  why they should hide it. He understands what’s at stake. His father helped build the very department he now headed. Protecting the secrecy of magic was in his blood. That’s who he was. But sometimes, he wishes… He shakes the thought from his mind and keeps reading. 

That’s when the black outs start.

Graves doesn’t know he has a mental illness. He was just tired, that’s all. The lost time, the black outs - just him passing out from exhaustion. He rarely sleeps enough and he is getting older. And the stress from the Grindelwald cases… it’s getting to him. More and more.

He starts blacking out for longer and longer. He tries not to dwell on it. Maybe it’s just his memory? He starts doing puzzles when he can. Word searches and such. Trying to improve it. It gets worse.

There’s different clothes in his closet. Stuff he’d never wear. Stuff he doesn’t remember buying. Sometimes he opens his eyes and he’s drinking whiskey even though he swore off the stuff when he was young and realized he didn’t like who he was when he drank.

He even _gains_  a little weight even though he never eats, never has the time. Sometimes money is missing. _He’s losing his mind_.

The night he decides he’s going to go to Seraphina is the night the other personality takes over. He’s himself less and less. He comes to in the shower and there’s blood. _Everywhere_. His hands are shaking. He turns the water as hot as it’ll go and scrapes until the blood is gone, but _it just won’t go away_. He can still feel it.

When Newt casts Revelio, it reveals nothing - but it does blow away the haze in Graves’ mind until what’s left is a wide-eyed man who had been gone for months. Shaking and confused and terrified at having the wands of his friends pointed at him.

He tells them he doesn’t know what’s going on.

They don’t believe him.

They interrogate him.

When Tina looks at him, it’s with disgust.

Seraphina looks at him as if he’s already dead. A walking corpse.

Sometimes the guards strike him. 

They call him a Grindelwald fanatic. They even speculate that he _is_ Grindelwald. 

He denies it.

Days pass. Time feels meaningless, here. He loses weight. His beard is full and mangy. They keep him in a small cell. He hasn’t seen light in ages.

When the screaming starts, he doesn’t know if it’s real.

The door blows open and in its frame is a familiar man - familiar only because he can still remember staring at the photos from the reports, cursing the man that stared back at him late at night as he wracked his brain over the cases. Gellert Grindelwald.

“When I heard that “Gellert Grindelwald” was captured in New York,” he purred, strutting up to Graves - towering over him. Spattered in blood. Eyes eerie and unnatural and unfathomable. Smile glowing and long and twisted. “I just had to meet him. They say imitation is the highest form of flattery, after all.”

“I didn’t do it,” Graves said, trembling. Too tired. Too hungry. Too scared of himself to be afraid of him. 

“I know,” Grindelwald said as he kneeled down in front of Graves and stroked his cheek. Graves sat frozen, unsure of what was real and what was fake, as Grindelwald’s hand traveled to the back of his neck and held him snugly. “I’m not talking to _you_.”

And when Grindelwald holds out a hand to help him stand, it’s not Graves who takes it.


	19. Newt Scamander's Crush

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Newt has a big crush on Graves pass it on  
> Warnings: None  
> Pairing: Newt Scamander x Percival Graves (Gramander)

Newton Artemis Fido Scamander most certainly _did not_ have a crush on one Percival Graves, the Director of Magical Security - until he did, that is.

Newt hadn’t had a crush on anyone for years, in fact, until a good three months after the Grindelwald incident. A good three months after they found Graves. Newt had been brought in to consult on a trafficking ring that broke out during the chaos of cleaning up Grindelwald’s mess and MACUSA had instantly asked for his return. He had come back, knowing he’d probably end up meeting the man behind the face that Grindelwald had stolen -

Only to find out he was on sick leave, re-cooperating from the trauma of being held prisoner. What trauma specifically, be it psychological or physically, no one could say. Nor could they say how long he’d be gone.

So imagine Newt’s surprise when he’s knee deep in a raid - spells flying, creatures howling from their cages and panicking, lashing out through the bars and suddenly, _he_ appears. He spots Graves entering the chamber from across the chaos and for a heart stopping second, Newt can’t move. His face is so familiar, and every moment he blinks, he can see Grindelwald’s exasperated expression as he sentenced him to death. But every time he opens his eyes, he see _Percival Graves._  And while the face is the same, nothing else is.

Grindelwald had moved like a peacock, strutting his power and the richness of Graves’ body like a man flaunting a pricey car. Graves moved like a panther; smooth, steadfast, assured of his capabilities but also cautious enough to know that didn’t ensure a painless fight. His eyes were deep and focused. He scanned the chaos at hand with a sheer, calm calculation that set Newt at ease. 

And when he announced his entrance finally to the group at large, it was not flashy or wasteful. He bound and gagged three criminals before the rest even realized he was attacking them at all. 

He attacked not just for himself, but for his flock. He cast spells that assisted those aurors that were struggling the most first - the outnumbered or exhausted or wounded. And once assured of their safety, then moved onto the rest. He wasn’t flashy. He didn’t try to eliminate everyone on his own, although Newt had a small inkling that he could. Instead, he worked with his aurors. He attacked just as much as he defended, moving slow and precisely. It wasn’t a race, after all. The safety of his team was most important.

And so while it was a sluggish fight, it was predominantly a success, with minimal injuries occurring after the fact.

“Well done,” he said, his voice rough like whiskey and warming Newt’s chest just the same. Newt watched as he clapped a strong hand onto Abernathy’s shoulder and squeezed, encouraging, before turning to the room at large. “Everyone, begin transporting these men to headquarters. We’ve a long night of paperwork ahead of us.”

“Yes!”

“Of course, sir!”

“Right away!”

And then Graves turned to look at _him._

 _“_ Mr. Scamander, yes? I was informed you were assisting with this case. Are you alright?” Graves asked, approaching him all the while, and Newt couldn’t help but feel pinned beneath the wolfish focus of those eyes. He swallowed, about the speak, when Graves’ gaze slid suddenly over Newt’s shoulder. 

He received no more notice than that. Suddenly, Graves was in front of him, shoving him aside. Newt stumbled into a nearby table, off balance, then whirled to take in what had set Graves off. 

A nundu stood where Newt had once stood, blood on it’s claws. Were it not for the cruel muzzle the criminals had placed upon the creature’s snout, Graves would probably have been struck dead by the creature’s poisons. Newt, too. 

Graves had managed to back away somewhat, but Newt could see where the nundu had struck him - sleeve torn and muddled red at the forearm. Graves had both his hands out, both making him seem large while also giving the nundu sight of both his hands and what they were doing. 

Newt rose to his feet quickly, mouth open to direct Graves, when the man then turned his open palms to him and shook his head - shushing him with his eyes. It was then he realized the man must have already warned back his aurors, too, because they were frozen in a semi-ring around him, wands drawn but frozen as they watched.

The nundu was growling, it’s huge throat swollen in angry and its thorny mane bristling. Newt felt his heart constrict, torn between directing Graves regardless of the man’s request for silence and telling him not to harm the nundu.

But neither predator attacked, nor seemed to attend to - both just staring each other down. It was then, Newt realized, that Graves was gently easing a wandless spell through the air between them. It sunk into the creature gradually, easing it into a calm stupor incrementally instead of all at once lest the spell panic the beast. Newt watched, wide-eyed, as the director calmly eased the creature to the ground - falling into a kneel in time with the moment that the creature laid down, keeping eye contact until it was finally fully slack, eyes closed, restful and at peace. 

“Sir, that was amazing,” one of the aurors whispered, awed. 

“Yes it was,” Newt whispered.

Graves leaned forward, hands searching out the crevices of the muzzle, frowning as though displeased as Newt approached. The man looked up at him once before leaning back on his haunches and turning his attention back to the beast.

“My apologies, Mr. Scamander. I am well aware of your expertise, but I did not think warning you would give you enough time to react - I hope I did not hurt you.”

“N-no, I’m quite alright. You… Thank you for not harming him. Another man might have killed him without another thought if they were staring down a nundu.”

“It’s not the creature’s fault he’s here. A spell must have shattered the door to his cage. Spooked him. We got too close and he was acting on instinct. He didn’t advance any further after the initial swipe - he didn’t want to hurt anyone,” Graves said, eyes on the creature as he spoke. “Can hardly fault him for trying to protect himself. Far from home, surrounded by hostile people and then exposed to the fight that just happened. And then he was muzzled. I don’t strike a man if I have a knife and he doesn’t. Goes the same for creatures. Just doesn’t seem right.”

Newt blinked, stock-still in the face of the last words he had expected to hear.

“I wish we could loosen this,” Graves said, fingers trailing over the places where the muzzle bit cruelly into the creature’s jaws, “But until he’s somewhere more managable, I don’t think that’s an option - for all of our sake’s, his included. I apologize though, Mr. Scamander. I know you’re likely not comfortable with that.”

Newt jerked, shook himself of his daze and said, “N-No, not at all. You’re right, it’s best for all of us, the nundu included, until I can get him somewhere safe.”

And when Graves rose to his feet, they were suddenly so close. Newt felt his breath hitch. He watched as Graves ran a hand over his wound, sewing the ragged mess shut, before looking ever so slightly up to look at Newt.

“Are you sure you’re alright, Mr. Scamander?” Graves asked. “You look a little shell shocked.”

Newt nodded quickly, too quickly to be smooth.

“Good. We should start noting and moving these creatures somewhere safe, then. I’d be happy to lend you a hand, if you need the assistance,” Graves said, clapping Newt on the back as he had done the aurors. “The faster we get them somewhere more like home, the better - right?”

And when Graves smiled at him, Newt felt his breath catch in his lungs. _Oh no_ , he thought. _He’s perfect._


	20. "Did You See?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: The "D-Did you see what they did to me...?"  
> Warnings: Non-Con/Rape, Torture, Kidnapping/Captivity  
> Pairings: Gellert Grindelwald x Percival Graves (Grindelgraves) (One-Sided)  
> Tags: Queenie accidently sees things she shouldn't have, Flashbacks, PTSD, Triggered

It’s a bad day. He knew there would be bad days. He prided himself on having mostly numb days, his mental walls so tall and so thick and so impenetrable even he forgot, some days. The bad days were few and far between. The nights - that was another matter altogether. But he had a dream-catcher for the nights, slowly eating away his nightmares one dream at a time. 

It was the bad days there was no escaping from. There were no dream-catchers for the waking hours.

He’s sitting in his office during one such bad day, hands trembling where he pressed them fiercely into his eyes - willing the thoughts, _the memories_  away.

It had been a stupid thing that had triggered him. So ordinary, so mundane. Nothing grand or flashy. Nothing he could have anticipated or avoided. No, it had been something simple. It had been the smell of his shoe shine.

He had had them sent out for a shining rather than go in person, far too busy to sit in one of the subway’s grand chairs while a stranger shined his shoe. He knew a man, the same man who he bought them from, who’d gladly shine them - so he had sent a messenger to take them there.

The messenger returned, shoes wrapped in a tidy brown package. Innocent and innocuous. Graves paid for his trouble and dismissed the man before taking the parcel to his desk to see the result first hand and ensure the product was as it should be. 

It was the smell of that pearly black oil, heavy and fresh the second he opened the lid, that sent him spiraling back into the dark edges of his mind - the place beyond his carefully constructed walls.

_He fell from the chains that held him aloft, and when he hit the floor, he heard his shoulder crunch - but he didn’t have the energy to make a noise. He pressed his face against the floor, eager to capture as much of its cool bliss as he could despite the filth that was no doubt on it. He was fever hot and burning cold and he thought that any moment now, he might shiver apart at the seams._

_His back was a roiling, tattered mess of welts - hot and throbbing. He could feel his anus gaping so lewdly, he’d be blushing if his fever had not already left him red in the cheeks. There was a hot, thick liquid oozing down his thighs that left him with the distinct taste of bile in his mouth, and he had to take a deep breath to keep from vomiting. Deeper still, to forget that Grindelwald had managed to get him off somehow, despite the lashing. Despite the rape. Did he like this? Did he somehow secretly like cruelty? Perhaps he deserved this… was made for this…_

_He trembled, exhausted on the ground._

_It wasn’t until he heard a pair of familiar shoes approach him and a chuckle, dark and menacing, that he finally opened his eyes. He was met with the blurry sight of two familiar black dress shoes - the pungent scent of their fresh shine thick and burning in his nose, their surfaces glimmering like new. Perfect in every way except for the streak of white that marred the right foot’s shiny surface. Graves blinked at it, uncomprehending._

_“It seems you made a mess of my shoes, pet,” Grindelwald crooned, crouching to better caress Graves’ sweaty face with two knuckles as he smiled. “Do be a dear and clean them, won’t you? No sense in wasting a good shine.”  
_

He startled from the memory at the sudden sound of china falling to the ground. He opened his eyes, wide and filled with dread, and _prayed_  that it was a figment of his imagination. That it wouldn’t be Grindelwald at his doorway, one hand still out from obviously pushing some knickknack to its doom himself before blaming Graves - an excuse just to punish him for no reason. He trembled despite himself, face nearly hidden by the shaking cradle of his hands before his eyes widened even further.

It wasn’t Grindelwald.

It was Queenie Goldstein, slender and doe-like in the frame of his doorway, like a deer caught in headlights. In her large eyes, he could see the beginning of tears swelling. His breath seized in his chest and he couldn’t breathe.

_No. No, no, no, no._

_“Queenie,”_ He croaked, his voice dry and harsh and pleading even to his own ears. They both flinched. He stood from desk and approached her quickly, as though if he got to her soon enough, it’d make the inevitable not so. His hands felt overly large where they grasped her shouldered, the split coffee and broken glass spreading in the space between their shoes. “What did you hear? _What did you see?”_

She didn’t answer, skin chalk white as she just stared at him with her overly large eyes. He wanted to shake her. He wanted to shake the memory right out of her - and she heard it, too, because she wilted in his grasp and instantly, he pulled away as though burned. Disgusted with himself.

“Mr. Graves,” she whimpered, one hand outstretched to him - pleading. 

“D-did you,” he stopped himself at his stammer and cleared his throat, eyes closed as he continued - calmly composed. And somehow, that made it worse. “Did you see it?”

“Please,” she whispered and took a step forward, hand outstretched as though to grab his own, but he merely took a step backward in response - just out of reach. Always just out of reach.

“Did you see what he did to me?”

And when he finally opened his eyes, it was to the sight of Queenie - arms crossed around herself. Her lower lip was trembling. Guilt was a hot, tight coil that pained his guts.

“Yes,” she said, “But Mr. Graves, I–”

“You don’t have to say anything, Ms. Goldstein,” he said, throat tight as he turned from her. ’ _I know what you must think of me’_ went unsaid. But he forgot that what went unsaid was still clearly said when in the presence of Queenie Goldstein.

She grabbed him gently by the elbow, and when he flinched, she did not force him. Instead, she pressed her forehead to the broad span of his back and breathed against him.

“What I saw,” she started, voice soft and thready. He waited for the inevitable, now that his secret was out. He had done so well with keeping his rape a secret. But stealing the integrity of his image as a respected leader had not been enough for Grindelwald. He had had to steal his image as a man as well. Something hot burned against the edges of his eyes as he awaited Queenie’s condemnation. ‘ _What I saw was disgusting. Pathetic. You let him do those filthy things to you and you liked it. Even cleaned him with your tongue. We should have let him keep you. We should have left you there to rot. We–’_ his thoughts derailed when her tight grasp on his elbow tightened and she said, suddenly confident, “was a brave man, _a man I can now proudly call a friend,_ survive the twisted machinations of a monster. What I saw was a good man go through hell and walk out the other side. And I’m so, so happy that you’re back.”

Something hot spilled from his shocked gaze - burning as it slipped down his cheek. It was all he could do to keep upright and keep breathing. But he managed to wind one hand up to grasp the thin hand Queenie had on his elbow and squeeze, _grateful_ , and unable to show it in any other way. But Queenie understood. She stayed with him that way for a long moment, and together, they just breathed until the vice on his lungs got a little more bearable. No, there were dream-catchers for the bad days… but there were good friends.

And on his desk, the shoes still sat in their brown little package, innocent and innocuous.


	21. So Pretty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Newt riding Graves on his office chair while he's still wearing his glasses and the glasses are all askew and steamy and Newt murmuring "so pretty" into Graves' slacked, wet mouth.  
> Warning: None  
> Pairing: Newt Scamander x Percival Graves (Gramander)  
> Tags: Riding, Lap Dance, Topping from the Bottom!Newt

Newt doesn’t know what’s driving him crazier: the hot heft of Graves’ cock splitting him open, the absolutely fucked out and overwhelmed look of the man he’s straddling, or _the director’s glasses_.

It’s the glasses, he finally decides. Or at the very least, a combination of the man’s glasses and the look on his normally stoic face. Newt feels a thrill of pride at knowing that it’s _his fault_ the director looks this way. If he had known the man would make these noises, these expressions, these needy little whines – he would have climbed atop him and fucked him silly weeks ago.

As it is, Newt takes his time writhing atop the man’s cock. He shimmies his hips in little undulations that drive symphonies of needy pleasure of the director’s throat. He guides Graves’ hands to his hips and licks at his lips as he slowly rides him in his office chair, the desk at the small of his back and pressing.

His dick throbs when he notices that the director’s glasses have gone askew – framed by pomade-hardened bangs that have rebelliously slipped free of their trappings. He rubs a hand through that hair and magically relieves it of its style until the locks are soft and free around his fingers. It makes the man look young and wild and ravished, and coupled with the steam that is slowly spreading across his black framed glasses, Newt feels himself inch that much closer to completion.

“So pretty,” he purrs against the corner of Graves’ open mouth and pecks it with a light, chaste kiss.

“N-Newt, ah _—_!” Graves whimpers, head back and brows furrowed from desperation and _being so fucking close, fuck, he’s almost there._ Newt feels the man’s cock throb deep inside him, thick and angry and ready to blow. “I need to, _I need to—“_

His hands tighten around Newt’s hips. They’ll leave bruises, he knows.

It makes him harder. His cock lurches in the tight space between them, trapped between their clothing because other than unzipping Graves and removing Newt’s pants, they didn’t bother to undress. Too hurried, too eager, too ripe to bother with it.

There’d always be later. Another night to have the director nude and flushed and writhing on his sheets, now that he knew how easy it was to make him moan so wantonly. He’d cover him with chocolate and lick him until he’s crying for it.

He comes to the image of that – _Graves, covered in chocolate and wearing nothing but his socks and his glasses._

He clenches and Graves follows him, eyes rolling and moaning so loudly surely the Aurors will hear them if any have decided to linger after hours.

All the better, Newt thinks – how else will they know the director’s taken?


	22. Dream a Little Dream of Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Percival Graves with an erotic dream of Gellert Grindelwald getting on HIS knees to suck Percy off?  
> Warning: Devolves into Non-Con, Dub-Con  
> Pairing: Percival Graves x Gellert Grindelwald (Grindelgraves)  
> Tags: Blow Jobs, Mild Bondage, Power-Play Dynamics

****Graves isn’t sure how it happens. One second he’s interrogating the dark wizard, the next he’s got the man on his knees – able to feel his breath on the ever tightening crotch of his pants. Those unnatural eyes are staring up at him, and despite being the one holding the key to Grindelwald’s chains, he has this disconcerting feeling that _he_ is the mouse in their little game.

“What are you doing?” Graves asks, scowling, unimpressed.

“Rewarding you,” Grindelwald purrs, the tip of his nose nuzzling into the soft fabric of the pants he himself once wore. “You caught me, director dearest. You won. I think that makes you rather deserving of a reward, don’t you?”

Graves frowns, but he surprises himself when he doesn’t move – curious as to where this leads. He only watches as Grindelwald gently reaches forward and unzips him. Graves can’t quiet the soft hitch in his throat when Grindelwald snags the little zipper between his teeth, his hands otherwise bound and occupied at the small of his back. Cruelly, Grindelwald takes his time exposing him. Each click of the zipper unraveling echoing like an explosion in the silence; like the ruthless ticking of a clock that just won’t strike twelve.

“You’re going to have to help a poor man out, director,” Grindelwald purrs when he’s done, his eyes big and unblinking from the floor. Piercing. “No hands, remember. I don’t think you want me nipping your hip bones trying to divest you of your lovely suit britches.”

And he does it. Christ, he doesn’t know why, _but he does it._ He lets this pants and underwear slip to the floor in a hushed whisper – exposing his socks and garters, binding him at his ankles because Grindelwald doesn’t give him so much as a second to step out of them before he’s on him. Breath, hot on his semi. A tentative lick at his glans.

Graves finds himself weaving his fingers into that white shock of hair before he can stop himself, nails digging in – harsh and demanding.

He didn’t make the man do this. He didn’t put him on his knees. He didn’t start this.

But he’d finish it.

“You are quite an intimidating man, director,” Grindelwald praises him from between his knees, kissing a little trail up the inside of one strong thigh. Eyes on him all the while. “I don’t know if I can bear you.”

“I suppose we’ll find out.”

The answering purr that rumbles in the dark wizard’s chest strikes a warning flag in Graves’ head. The man is enjoying this. There’s an unfathomable look in the man’s eyes even as he debases himself at Graves’ feet, even as he worships him with lips and teeth and tongue. Something niggles anxiously in the back of Graves’ mind, but it fades away beneath the pleasure of a tongue at his ball sack, soft and eager.

He takes a stumbling step forward, encroaching on Grindelwald’s space, clumsy from the pants around his ankles.

Grindelwald moans appreciatively.

“Good boy.”

Graves blinks. _What did the man just–?_

Grindelwald falls silent, mouth otherwise occupied by the first few inches of Graves’ length that he settles deliberately on the flat span of his tongue – heavy and filling.

_Oh. Oh no._

It’s been so long. His heart is hammering, blood pooling fast and hot into his crotch. His knees threaten to buckle. He digs into Grindelwald’s hair a little harder, torn. Finish this or end it? It was toeing a fine line. He had to be careful, he had to—

Hands on his hips, large and tight and domineering and _wait – hands? But the chains; how did he?_

Graves eyes shoot open just as Grindelwald _pushes_ him and suddenly the dynamic has changed. He is no longer towering above Grindelwald rather he is pinned between the man and the unyielding presence of the desk at his lower back, biting and unmoving. He presses his hands at the man’s shoulders to push him off, but Grindelwald just fastened onto him more viciously; sucks him so hard right down to the root that he can feel the tip of the man’s nose pressed hard into the soft stretch of his pelvis. Nails in his sides, little crescents in his flesh – white hot and demanding.

He can feel his balls tightening, rising, ready to blow.

 _“Grindelwald–!”_ He exclaims, only to stop when he hears how broken he sounds, how overwhelmed, how very _un-director-like_ it is. He barely bites down the whimper that rises within him at the realization. How had this happened?

_Why was he enjoying this?_

Hands under the pert swells of his cheeks, lifting him to press more deeply into Grindelwald’s throat and he has to bite his hand not to scream. He’s weak at the knees and trembling. If the dark wizard let him go, he’d surely fall. He is in trouble. _He is in so much trouble_.

He reaches for his magic to knock the man off. If his bodily strength wouldn’t rise to the occasion, surely his magic would. But as though sensing it, Grindelwald merely gives him a mirthful look from between his knees and swallows with a low, deliberate hum vibrating the soft walls around Graves’ length.

And all of Graves magic fell to pieces in his hands, shaken apart and sliding through his fingers like fine grains of sand. The more he reached for it, the more it slipped away.

One of the hands at his cheeks slipped deeper and _probed_ him and he came, screaming – knuckles bloody from where his teeth had bit them raw.

Everything falls silent, his world a screen of white. Then slowly, it all comes crawling back. The soft drip of water falling from the dank, cobbled ceiling. The angry bite of metal at his wrists, holding him aloft. The chill on his naked skin. The smell. He isn’t in his interrogation room, he isn’t safe. He is in his cell, weakly hanging from his chains – hoping someone would see Grindelwald for who he was and find him.

_That dream…_

Graves swallows, repulsed.

His eyelids flutter and open. He needs to see it. He needs to know that it had been a dream. That it hadn’t happened. He takes in the dripping walls and the chains overhead. The closed door, the dark corners. All was as he left it, before he fell asleep.

All except for…

Hands on his ass. Breath on the soft flesh of his pelvis.

A familiar feeling of _hot, wet, tight_ on his cock.

Slowly, dreadfully, his gaze falls.

His stomach drops. He pales.

Grindelwald on his knees, watching him – _knowing_.

He watches as Grindelwald slowly pulls back, inch after inch of oversensitized skin leisurely passing through the light graze of his teeth until finally Graves’ softening length pops free.

“Good morning, beautiful,” Grindelwald purrs, one fingertip still inside him, and leans forward to press an innocent little kiss to the tip of Graves’ wilting, spent cock before grinning. “Pleasant dreams?”


	23. I Miss You, Percival Graves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: In which Graves comes back from his captivity with Grindelwald more than just a little broken. His mind has coped, learned to protect itself, and now there are many versions of Percival Graves where there used to be one. They keep the man as a consultant while the mediwizards try to figure out how to make the many one again - and for the most part, the many versions of Percival Graves don’t mind. Tina finds it all rather fascinating, although it does creep some of the other aurors out.  
> Warnings/Tags: Mental Illness, PTSD  
> Pairings: Gen

They keep a little journal, each of them. Whenever someone writes in theirs, the note shows up in all of them. They have a page for each identity and try to keep up with Graves like that.  
  
 **RAY -**  
He might be Tina’s favorite. He’s a grumpy, emotional, blunt mess of a man - but he’s kind in a weird, harsh way that makes Tina fond of him. He’s the emotional side of Graves. The part of Graves that has remembered and regretted every lost soul, every suspect accidentally killed instead of apprehended, every man that got away, every victim they couldn’t save. His shoulders sag beneath the weight of a sadness he hides behind hilarious expressions and copious drinking. They know when Ray is in control because he wears jeans and a blazer jacket, smells of liquor, and has this _look_  in his eyes - this unfathomable sadness - that makes him simultaneously easy to approach and yet miles away from any of them. He’s got a bit of an accent, this _Irish lit_ , and Tina finds out that all this time, _Graves has been hiding his Irish heritage_  and her mind is blown.   
  
 **MARTY -**  
If she thought _Ray_  had an accent, _Marty has an accent._ Quick to befuddlement and easily overwhelmed - Marty is a writer. A rather good one at that, when he’s sober. He follows them around with a little notebook and asks all sorts of questions. He is the creativity in Graves. The keen mind. He’s sympathetic and eager. Quick to smiling, quicker to booze. He says cruel, honest things when he’s drunk (and he’s drunk a lot, though the smell is the only thing that gives him away). He says kind, encouraging things when he’s sober. He wishes them luck. He apologizes for not being _more_  than he is. He knows he’s broken. He knows he isn’t right. He knows what man they’re looking for when they come to him for good luck before a mission. He claps them on the shoulder all the same, presses their foreheads together, and says “Come back in one piece. I’ll keep trying to bring him back for you.”  
  
 **DAVID -  
** Strike that, David is her favorite. He’s a smol man. She knows when David’s in the driver’s seat because Graves’ body language changes _completely_. His shoulders hunch in. His eyes gain this doe-eyed blankness, this utter heartbreaking hope to be noticed - and his voice is soft and kind and a little awkward, but generally as Irish as his other personalities. He speaks plainly and kindly. He moves awkwardly, afraid of using anyone else’s space. Afraid of being noticed. He likes to eat comfort foods that _Graves_  would never allow himself to eat. Flaky pastries and soft pies and other little treats. David isn’t out enough to really affect Graves’ waistline, but Tina loves to bring him sweats when he is around - she loves every moment of watching David eat. He eats like he doesn’t deserve it. She loves to see him in awe of his food. She loves to see him happy. David is Graves’ fears in one body. He’s afraid of spiders, of all things - though he won’t make a sound. He’ll just politely and awkwardly excuse himself from the spider’s space. It’s adorable. He’s afraid of eye contact. Afraid of beautiful men or ladies (Queenie especially, which makes her fond of him to no end). Afraid of Picquery - he practically runs from the woman.  
  
Afraid his aurors won’t come home.  
  
When he’s around and the aurors go on missions, he nervously switches from foot to foot, hand twitching as though to reach out. The first time Tina hugs him before a mission, he sinks into her gratefully and sighs into her hair - “Please be careful.”   
  
**DOUGLAS -**  
Douglas is a soft spoken man, but he is also a deadly man. His body moves like a cat. He was trained to kill. He is the fire in Graves during a duel. He is his stealth, his endless energy, his power. The one time he was present to accompany them on a raid, they closed up the mission in minutes rather than hours. He is a force to be reckoned with - unbridled and passionate. Where Graves was controlled, he is a tornado. Anything and everything in his path laid to waste. They knew their Director was powerful.  
  
What they did not know was that Graves was like an iceberg and all that they had seen was just the deadly tip - miles of possibilities silent below the surface.  
  
Douglas is incredibly protective of them. He binds their injuries when they come back. He trains them when he can. He works out with them. He’s hard on them. He wants them to be safe. He knows that some of them won’t come back. He subtly says goodbye to them each time they leave; hopeful, but pessimistic.   
  
 **JERRY -**  
Tina avoids Jerry. He is deadly just as Douglas is deadly, but not because he was trained to be a weapon - because he is a predator. She can see it in his eyes. Danger, fighting, blood, war - these things are _fun_  to Jerry. And with a start she realizes that while many parts of Graves regret the causalities of his job - the victims, the death, the violence - _one part of him is thrilled by it_. Thrilled by his power, by his ability to survive, to win, to overcome. Not only that, but Jerry is Graves’ sexuality. Something she honestly didn’t even think the man had. Quiet and subdued and professional as he is, it’s hard to think that _Jerry_  stems from him. That the raw sexuality that Jerry puts into his hips when he towers over Tina despite being shorter than Tina _comes from Graves in some capacity - that their stern director is capable of making that steamy look_. He makes aurors beeline for the bathrooms. He makes Queenie blush one day just by passing and no doubt sending her a stray thought because _he knows she can hear him_. He wears tight shirts and tight pants and absolutely nothing that leaves anything to the imagination. She didn’t know his butt was so pert. That his crotch could make a pair of pants _bulge_  like that and – the aurors don’t like to write on Jerry’s page often. No one wants to admit how… _effective_  his advances are.  
  
There is one note that suddenly appears one day below Jerry. It says simply:  _“Where the hell is he getting all these apples?!”_  
  
 **THERE ARE OTHERS, TOO -**  
Tina knows there’s more. There’s a page labeled _Charles_ , but no one managed to glean much information about him yet. Another named ‘John’ and ‘Jim’. There’s ‘Danny’ - a young, professional man who most resembles what the older aurors consider to be Graves’ younger self when he first entered the department. He’s sharp as a whip, very fond of Graves’ usual fashion, and all too eager to rush into the field and catch their man. He’s familiar in a way that makes’ Tina’s heart hurt.  
  
But none hurt as much as the man himself. Tina has only found him once, huddled in the corner of his office - blank eyes staring out over the hills of his knees, curled in tight on himself.   
  
He doesn’t answer when she calls to him. She sits beside him and waits, hoping he’ll say something. He just trembles instead. She decides to fill the silence with her voice and hopes it’ll bring him home. She talks about Jacob’s bakery and Newt’s new book. She tells him about the Occamy that lives in her dresser because somehow it got left behind, though it doesn’t seem to mind. Embarrassingly enough, it appears to love the soft silk of Tina’s panties. She talks about their missions and their progress. She tells him about the weather, in case he hasn’t been around to notice.  
  
She only stops when a large, shaking hand finally reaches for hers in the space between them. When she looks over to him, he’s not staring at nothing anymore - he’s looking at her. He looks exhausted. Dark circles beneath his eyes, his gaze haunted. He looks weak. He looks lost.  
  
He looks like home. He looks like Percival Graves.  
  
Her eyes fill before she can stop herself.  
  
“I miss you,” she whimpers.  
  
He licks his lips and tries to smile. He almost manages it, too.  
  
“I know,” he says. “I miss you, too.”


	24. Softly, Hallelujah

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Hurt!Newt (Gramander)  
> Warnings: Mention of Injury/Details of Injury

It’s in the middle of a meeting when Graves suddenly feels the band on his finger grow hot and agitated. He stops mid sentence, hands braced down on the end of the conference room table, as images flash across his mind’s eye – quick snap shots of things until finally, he has what he needs.

He presses his thumb to the underside of his ring finger and against the band itself and says, “I’m coming, hang on,” before turning to the room at large.

“Director Graves,” Picquery blinks, cool and composed but he can see in her gaze that she has at least some inkling of what has happened. “Everything alright?”

“I am afraid I must excuse myself,” is all he says and then he’s abusing his high security clearance to disapparate out of the meeting room and into the living room of the flat he shares with a certain Magizoologist. He finds the case atop their bed, a rather nervous looking Dougal sitting on its top most step – peering out, waiting.  The moment it sees him, it dips back into the case; obviously aware of what Graves has come for. Graves follows him down in a hurry, his feet flying down the rickety ladder, only to find that Newt is not in his little shack.

“Where is he, Dougal?” Is all he has to ask before the snowy creature is bolting out the door, pausing every now and then to make sure he’s still following. He doesn’t need Dougal’s help for long, however. He can _hear_ the conflict before he ever reaches it – violent roaring and loud crashing. He sees the high wall of one of Newt’s fake scenery tapestries fall over and knows instinctively where to go. He rounds the corner and falls to a stop.

Newt is there, lying in the tall grass of one of his enclosures – one Graves has never seen before, so it must be new. He’s on his back, eyes wide and blank and glassy as they stare up at fake sky above him. There’s blood on his shirt sleeve and across his right side, his shirt torn in a row of three neat, gaping hopes of fabric and beneath them, shredded skin. But worse than that, Graves knows, is the neat row of three barbs sunk deep into the meat of his shoulder, the barbs connected to long, needle like spines that shiver with each whistling breath Newt manages to take.

“Newt!” He breathes, but before he can rush forward, Dougal snags his hand. He follows the creature’s keen eyes to the source of the commotion.

A Manticore – _an actual God forsaken **Manticore**_ **–** has its lion-like claws buried deep into the thick hide of Newt’s Nundu. Graves spots the terrifying, shark-like rows of teeth in the beast’s maw and knows he should be grateful that Newt isn’t _dead_ , but he can’t help but feel a furious little bubble rise in his gut knowing that Newt willingly brought this creature into his case. He watches as the long, dragon-like tail of the Manticore flails wildly behind it as the Nundu frees itself from its claws and manages to sink its poisonous teeth down to the gums in the Manticore’s foreleg. Immediately, the flesh around the bite begins to blister and peel away – and the roar the Manticore releases is beyond any agony Graves has ever heard before. Second only to his own pain when he hears Newt whine ever so slightly in response to the creature’s anguish.  

“Enough of this,” he snarls and steps forward. All it takes is a flick of his wand to stop the fight. His spell hits the Manticore straight in the chest and immediately, he sees the desired results. He watches as it shrinks before his eyes – smaller and smaller and smaller – until all that’s left behind is a Manticore, yes, but one no larger than the size of a drinking flask. Its roars sound more like the soft mewls of a kitten now, and he watches with some pride as the Nundu merely snorts down at it scathingly before turning to fix Graves’ with a keen and judging look. It’s assessing him. Curious if Graves can be trusted. But a year and a half of feeding the beast at Newt’s side appears to have been worth something, because the Nundu merely bows its head to him – once – and walks away into the foliage of Newt’s suitcase.

Graves is knee-deep in the dirt and at Newt’s side in an instant.

“Newt?” He asks, peeling at Newt’s eyelids, waiting for the man to react. He doesn’t. Just keeps staring straight ahead. “No, no, no, Newt,” he babbles, voice warbling despite himself – despite his mask of professional calm. “Not like this. Not today. Stay with me.”

He scoops the limp man into his arms, uncaring of the blood that oozes into his fine clothes, and carries Newt to the stairs. He casts a spell as he passes the desk to craft a note to Tina.

_Taking Newt to the hospital. Please collect his case._

_PG_

The little paper mouse scuttles free of the case just as Graves does, and no sooner does he both feet out of the case is he disapparating for the hospital. They take Newt from him immediately. He hears the doctors talking frantically with one another, but he can’t keep up. He tries to follow, but not even his sternest gaze can sway the sympathetic but firm nurse that tells him he’d just be in the way.

He paces the waiting room floor like a madman. Hours tick by. No one comes to talk to him. His heart grows a little heavier and a little heavier with each passing moment. Tina arrives at some point with the blasted case in hand and Graves can’t help but want to set the thing afire, knowing it might have taken Newt from him. He won’t though. If Newt is gone, this is his last bit of him and more than likely the largest part of Newt’s heart. If that’s all he has left, he’ll take it. He’ll watch over the beasts Newt loves.

But he casts the thoughts from his mind, for now, and doesn’t bother to protest when Tina gently wraps him in a hug.

“It’ll be alright,” she whispers.

Graves says nothing, just spins the golden band on his finger until the skin beneath is aching.

He tries to think of everything he knows about Manticores but all he can see is Newt’s face, pale and staring at nothing. He thinks of the barbs and tries to remember if Manticores are venomous. He’s sure they are, but in what sense? Neurotoxic? Paralytic? Fatal?

It’s another couple hours before anything changes, and when it does – it’s not because the nurses come for him. It’s because Newt is awake and pressing on his ring.

Graves is through the door before anyone can stop him, his great coat a flapping span of fabric behind him as he flies through the halls, following the pull on his ring. He ends up in front of a door just as a wide-eyed nurse exits it, blinking owlishly at him.

“M-Mr. Graves,” she stutters, “I was just coming to fetch you—“

He’s already pushing past her. He’ll apologize later, but he has to see him, _has to know_ …

Newt looks tiny in the hospital bed, and it steals the breath from Graves’ lungs to see his larger than life partner looking so frail and small tucked away as he is beneath crisp white sheets and metal bed bars. He can see Newt’s thin hand on the sheets, his thumb pressed against his wedding band.

Newt smiles, and although he’s pale and at death’s door, Graves is struck by how beautiful he looks. Alive, eyes glittering, and smiling.

“You came,” Newt says through the bond of their rings.

Graves presses his thumb into his own and thrusts every thought, every ache, _every worry, every relief_ into their bond and breathes a sigh of relief.

 _“You stayed,”_ he says, and it sounds like hallelujah.


	25. Swaddled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Graves working too much and collapsing in bed like a burrito, which is how Newt finds him. He wakes him up briefly to make him at least have a hot chocolate for dinner then they snuggle up and snore in concert.  
> Warnings: None  
> Pairing: Gramander

Walking past his little makeshift cot in favor of climbing the ladder and going to his partner’s bed gives Newt a little thrill of joy that has not yet ceased to make itself known each and every night. They’ve been together for a few months now - and while they’re not always in the bed at the same time, Newt loves that he has someone to share it with. Thick mattress and soft blankets and plush pillows. He’s nearly salivating just thinking about it.

But as he exits his case and reaches the stairs of Graves’ home, he finds himself pausing at a peculiar development. There’s a trail of clothing leading up the stairs. It starts first with Graves scarf - limp and spiraling down the bottom first steps. Newt grabs it with gentle hands and preciously folds it before setting it to hang on the banister. Next, just a few steps up, is first one shoe - then the other. He magics them to their normal place at the door, baffled. 

Graves is a meticulous man. He has a routine that he abides by without mercy. Every evening when he comes home, he first hangs his scarf and coat on the rack, then sits on the seat in their foyer to remove his shoes and neatly set them beneath his coat. He then goes to the bedroom to finish removing any unnecessary clothing for a man at home; his vest, his socks and garters, his belt. He unbuttons his cuffs and the top few buttons of his shirt, and removes his tie - revealing creamy skin and a little wisp of hair - and carefully sets his stickpins and cuff links in their little tray. 

And then he goes to the sitting room to laze in his chair. He sips on brandy by the fire and continues to go over casework, and doesn’t make a peep of protest when Newt eventually joins him - smelling of creatures and sweat and manual labor - and slinks into his lap like a great cat. Graves just adjusts his work so that he might support Newt in his arms and still read his files. It takes soft kisses up his jaw line to coax the work away. To bring the man back home. Gentle lips against a day’s worth of scruff until finally those brown eyes, tired from so much reading, are focused solely on Newt.

But not today.

Today, Newt finds Graves’ elaborate coat sprawled on the floor at the top of the steps; forgotten. He finds next the man’s belt trailing like a great snake in the middle of the hall, his cuff links and stickpins glimmering innocently on the decorative table of their hallway - one quite close to falling off the edge. Next, his socks and garters. His vest, his shirt, his tie. 

All leading to their little nook of a laundry room. He finds the dryer door open, heat still emanating from it’s depths, and frowns.

Sure enough, he finds a familiar lump of blankets atop their bed. If not for the pale bottom of one foot sticking out (and the knowledge that Graves was rather attentive about making the bed each and every morning), Newt might’ve mistaken the lump for a heap of undone bedding and nothing more. 

Newt chuckles, a soft fondness burning away some of the exhaustion and concern from his face.

“Hard day?” He asks as he comes to sit beside where he thinks the man’s head might be tucked away. 

All that comes back is a rather un-Percival like grumble.

Newt smiles. Even from where he sits he can feel the heat of the blankets that wrap Graves up from head to toe. Steamy and delicious against the crisp fall bite slowly bleeding into the air of New York City. 

 _To have chosen to use their little dryer instead of magic…_ Newt knew the man must be exhausted. It only makes him feel all the more guilty when he gently leans over the bundle of fabrics and pries the tucked corner aside - revealing a rather grumpy looking and sleepy face.

“Have you eaten?” He asks, trying not to smile - still all too able to recall what happened the last time he dare called Percival Graves cute.

Another grumble as Graves tries to burrow his face back into the depths of his molten cocoon; grumpy, because he knows what’s surely coming.

“Percy, you must eat,” he urges gently, fingers at the man’s baby soft hair - free of pomade, he notes. He’d leave the poor man to his own machinations if he hadn’t been working himself so hard lately. If Newt hadn’t noticed the dark circles growing beneath his eyes or the way his belt had to be notched a hole tighter lately. If he hadn’t noticed the way Graves felt cold a lot, recently, or how he tired quicker. Fall was coming. The season would not wait for Graves to catch up. 

“But it’s warm _now_ ,” Graves mumbles, and if anyone were to ask he would deny it was a whine until his dying day. Gone is the normally terse director, replaced by soft human flesh and sleepy lashes and a dazed mind. It is odd, to see the man like this. It makes Newt’s chest tight.

“I’ll heat it for you again, love,” Newt promises with a fond smile. “Up you get. Dinner, and then we’ll both wrap up in some freshly heated sheets. How’s that sound?” 

Newt can’t help but laugh when Graves tries his last card and turns to better face him, a sultry (if a touch sleepy) look on his face when he purrs, “Or you could join me now.”

Newt leans in to kiss first his forehead, then both of his sleepy eyes before purring back into his mouth, “Dinner, then sleep or I’ll take the blankets for myself and leave you here to shiver.”

And when all Graves does is pout at him (another thing he would deny), too sleepy to argue, Newt chuckles and kisses him chastely. He loves this man too much to let him starve, let alone sleep with no bedfellow. 

Ah, _love_ … 

But that’s a discussion for another time, he decides, as he takes his sleepy lover by the hand and leads the blanket swaddled director to the kitchen.

Dinner, then bed; limbs entangled, noses touching. Snoring in quiet symphony.


	26. Daddy Got Back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Description: Newt finds out that Graves has been (obliviously) hiding quite the booty beneath his coat and slacks - and once he knows about it, he's just gotta worship that fine ass.  
> Warnings: NSFW  
> Pairing: Scraves  
> Tags: Dirty Talk, Bottom!Graves, Coming in Pants, Butt Worship

The first night they have sex, Newt learns the map of Graves’ body in the dark. It’s late and they barely make it to the bed, let alone light a lamp. So they learn each other blindly.

Newt weighs the heft of Graves’ cock in his hand and uses his fingers to guess his length, his girth, only aware that the director is as painfully hard and wet as he is. He commits to memory the soft, overwhelmed gasps Graves makes instead of his expression because Newt has got his own face buried into the salty skin of the director’s neck. He learns the taste of the man slowly, savoring it like chocolate, letting the tang of him melt and linger on his tongue. Nibbles and only stops when the man beneath him suddenly whines – _which then only makes him nibble more,_ hungry to hear an echo of that sound.

Newt wraps one large, scarred hand around both their cocks and presses them together in the vice of his fingers. With his thumb he finds that he is a smidge longer than graves, but only a smidge. Not as girthy though, by comparison.

Newt rocks his hips down into him, forcing small, soft noises from his throat he never would have thought the director would make – and he loves that he does. Loves that instead of growling, Graves sighs. That instead of purring, he mewls. That instead of moaning, he whimpers. He’s no less a powerful wizard for it. Newt can _feel_ Graves’ strength in the hard cording of the hands that hold and compel Newt’s hips to keep moving _harder, faster, deeper_. Can feel the tremble of strained muscles beneath the fingertips of his free hand, clenching at Graves’ shoulder, his bicep, his pecs. It is not that Graves is weak for making these noises, it is that Graves is tired. Tired of leading, tired of controlling, tired of being – and the fact that he has chosen _Newt_ to give that burden, to let _Newt_ pull him apart and lead him to oblivion – it makes Newt that much harder, his cock twitching eagerly against his partner’s weeping length. All of Graves’ sounds are soft, like a plea, and Newt swallows them eagerly.

They find release together in the dark, mouths open and breathing into one another. Newt grits his teeth and growls into the burning pleasure, only for that sound to melt into a fierce and grateful moan when all he hears from Graves in return is a soft _oh_ and a whimpering, overwhelmed keen - whisper soft against the silence of the dark.

Newt learns the burn of Graves’ stubble against his lips when he kisses the man through his daze all along his jawline until finally meeting his lips. He memorizes the hot press of his mouth and the soft glide of his tongue with his eyes closed. Remembers the way Graves writhes beneath him, softening in his hand and over sensitized.

Studies the feel of the man in his arms.

And when Newt wakes, he studies him with his eyes in the little hotel room MACUSA put him up in. He takes in the soft flush of Graves’ long, sooty lashes against his hard, crisp cheekbones. He brushes aside his messy hair and remembers the soft sigh of the director’s lower lip against his thumb – catching and dragging with the digit ever so slightly, exposing a pearly line teeth for the briefest moment.

Newt watches as the man wakes, surprisingly slow for an auror and a veteran. He blinks sleepily, then focuses on Newt and says, “Huh. So that _did_ happen. Good morning.”

“Good morning,” Newt says back, leaning forward to butt his head against the other man’s forehead. “And yes, that _did_ happen. Could happen again, too, if you keep looking at me like that.”

He feels Graves’ shiver beneath his hands, _familiar_ , but now he commits the visual to his memory to accompany the sensation. Despite his trembling, Graves looks nothing even remotely close to bashful. Hungry, eager, wanting, powerful, demanding to be sated…

But instead, he just sighs regretfully into Newt’s mouth.

“As lovely as that sounds,” he says, spotting the alarm clock over Newt’s shoulder. “I have a meeting at nine. Duty calls.”

“We have time,” Newt says, hopeful.

“We do, but the next time I have that cock of yours in my hands I want to _sit on it_ , Scamander, and if I do that this morning I’ll be wrecked all day. So it’ll have to wait.”

Newt whines, not just because he knows a lost cause when he hears it but because now he can’t help but picture the man bouncing on his cock and _that’s just fucking cruel, Graves._

Newt gasps.

“You bloody tease,” he snarls, half frustrated, half playful.

Graves smiles at him, and despite the softness of his lips it’s a predator’s eyes that greet him.

“So I’ve been told,” Graves says, then leans forward to peck a gentle, apologetic kiss to the corner of Newt’s gaping lips before gracefully sliding out of bed.

The kindness of the kiss leaves Newt speechless for a moment. The ass that suddenly fills his view when Graves rises from the bed, however, leaves him hard quite nearly instantaneously because _damn_ , he could bounce a penny off those cheeks.

He can feel the way he’s tenting the sheets in his lap.

But Newt can’t seem to find an iota of wit with which to speak, too enraptured by the perky swells that form each of Graves’ pale cheeks. Too captivated by the subtle way they bounce as Graves makes his way across the bedroom in search of his pants.

“Newt, do you recall where we – _ah, wait, no_ – I found them. Nevermind,” and then that absolute oblivious _tease_ of a man is _bending over_ , his cheeks splitting to give Newt the slightest glimpse of a small, clenched hole for a second before he steps into each pant leg and slowly rises, lifting the offending garment all the while.

And the pants, God bless them, get caught beneath the curve of Graves’ ass and Newt is treated to the sight of Percival Graves, Director of Magical Security, shimmying his cheeks to wiggle them past the waist of his trousers and into the seat of his pants.

Newt bites his knuckles and rubs at his cock through the sheets, unsure of how this was possible. How did he _never notice_ that ass? But it’s the pants, he realizes, that are to blame. The moment they’re cinched around Graves’ waist they do the most mind-boggling job of obscuring the fine little hills he had been looking at mere seconds ago. When Graves turns around and catches his mystified and frustrated look, he merely blinks innocently – completely and frustratingly unaware of what he could have possibly done – and says, “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Newt lets his gaze slowly travel up to catch Graves’ gaze and feels his shock bleed into hunger. Beneath the weight of his stare, Graves stills – acutely aware of the change.

“You’re not going to make it to that meeting, Percival,” Newt says simply, daring the man to argue as he slides from the bed, sheets pooling down and away from his erect dick. He thinks he might catch the smallest hint of a flush on Graves cheeks, the slightest widening of his eyes; but he’s not sure.

“Newt, I really can’t—“

Newt is towering over him before he can so much as compel his belt through his belt loops with a wandless spell. Graves doesn’t back down though, his spine straight and his jaw set as he watches Newt – curious, if a little baffled and a little peeved and _a little interested._

Newt winds his fingers into the first two belt loops on either side of Graves’ zipper and tugs him closer, quick and harsh before the man can stop him, until their crotches are pressed once more together. The gorgeous fabric of Graves’ suit pants is soft and smooth against his weeping dick, and even now he can see a little bit of moisture catch on the fabric, darkening it. He wonders if the inside is darkening too.

Graves didn’t put on underwear, after all, he realizes with a hungry throb of his dick.

“You can go, if you want to,” Newt says innocently. “Or you can stay and hear what I have to say.”

Graves huffs into his mouth, his lips a firm line, and scoffs.

“I have a meeting in thirty minutes, Newt. Nothing you say can change that.”

“You’re right. Nothing I say will change that. But _you_ don’t have to go. You could stay here, with me, and let me worship that ass you’ve kept hidden from the world, you tease.”

Graves blinks, caught off guard.

“Wait, what?”

“This,” Newt says and trails his hands over the man’s lithe hips until he has a meaty handful of each cheek and squeezes. “How have you managed to hide it for so long?”

“What are you on about? It’s my ass, Newt, it’s hardly been hiding.”

“Oh no. No, no, no. If this,” he squeezes, “Were in a pair of better fitting pants, you’d have people – _more people_ – on their knees ready to worship it. But instead you keep it hidden away in those loose slacks and buried beneath that damn coat. No wonder no one’s mauled you yet.”

“I’m not hiding anything! It’s just an ass, Newt, honestly – ”

Newt pulls him closer by the cheeks, fingers digging into soft flesh, and grinds their hips together, drawing a gasp and an annoyed little frown from Graves’ lips.

“This is not _just an ass_ , Percival. This is something I could wedge my dick between and rub off to completion just by sandwiching your cheeks around my cock.”

And _that_ has Graves interested. Newt can feel him start to fill against the seam of his trousers, tenting the material to meet Newt’s own angry, weeping cock.

“Newt,” Graves warns, but makes no move to disengage, so Newt continues.

“I want to slather those cheeks in fine oils and watch how your skin gives beneath my fingers. Massage them until they’re soft like dough and kneed them until you’re keening for it. I want to pull them apart to see your winking little hole and spank it with two fingers until it’s stinging and fluttering and ready for more.”

Graves sucks in a sharp breath, and Newt smiles at him with dark eyes and too many teeth. He presses the pointer and middle fingers of one hand against the seam of Graves’ pants seat and traces it up and down, pressing a little harder with each pass, slowly tucking the fabric into the crack of Graves’ cheeks.

The shiver that wracks the director’s body follows him all the way down to his ass, so much so that Newt can feel a little tremble in his hands.

“I want to spread you open with my fingers and prepare you with my tongue. Nibble on the soft ring of your anus until you’re sobbing from it. I want to pour oil right into your gaping hole and blow into the soft, exposed pink of your insides until you’re quivering and writhing and out of your mind. Fill you with toys and beads and magical things that will leave you as nothing more than a useless lump of a man in my bed. I want to wring orgasms from you without ever touching your cock. One after another until you’re dry.”

Hands on his shoulders, clenching hard. Short, heady breaths against his throat. There’s a damp spot on the crotch of Graves’ tailored pants. Newt digs his fingers in a little deeper, pressing until he can pet the director’s hole through the fabric of his trousers, exposing the swell of his cheeks that they once obscured in lewd detail.

He presses until he can tuck a bit of that fabric _in_ , and Graves’ breath hitches. He keens.

“I want to pierce you with my cock and drive you through the bed frame. Take you against a wall until you’re wailing; your legs wrapped tight around my waist, your cheeks plush and gentle against my hips when I pound you,” he purrs, and can’t help but smile when he feels Graves begin to helplessly rut up against him, desperate for friction. “And when I’ve finally gone and spent myself inside you, and you’re all fucked out and limp in my arms, I want to spread you out like a gift to the gods and clean you with nothing but my fingers and my tongue. Until you can’t remember your own name, let alone your title. All because of my cock splitting your ass in two.”

“ _Oh,”_ and then a soft, whimpering keen. But this time, Newt gets to see the face that accompanies that sound. He commits to memory the soft ‘O’ of Graves lips; the gentle, overwhelmed furrow of his brows; the slight peek of his tongue over his teeth; his concentration, and the moment it bleeds away to bliss.

Newt kisses his cheeks, his jaw, memorizes the burn of his stubble and thinks he’ll never let him go.

“I can do that to you right now,” Newt promises, “Right on that bed. How does that sound?”

After a moment to catch his breath, Graves finally glares at him ever so slightly through his lashes and growls, “Well I can’t very well go to the meeting in these trousers now, can I?”

Newt smiles innocently, nose to nose with the grumpy – _but sated_ – man.

“No,” he purrs and runs one finger down the seam of his seat, snapping threads with wandless magic until he has a nice little slit to work with. “I suppose you can’t.”

Graves doesn’t make it to his meeting.


	27. Roxanne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Description: Grindelwald makes Graves dance with him to celebrate his successful overthrow of MACUSA, and they basically hate-dance with each other.  
> Warnings: Non-consensual/Dub-Con Dancing? Is that a thing...? Well, that happens.  
> Pairing: Grindelgraves
> 
> (The word **Tango** in the fic below is hyperlinked to music, if you so wish to listen along)

**“Dance with me,”** Grindelwald said as he led Graves into the middle of the room, the circular party tables around them filled with tied up coworkers - all captives from Grindelwald’s successful overthrow of MACUSA. “ _Impress_  me, and I’ll let the one that needs medical attention go. Refuse, and I’ll kill them all.”

Graves glared at him, done up (by Grindelwald’s hand) in a finely tailored suit - one that even surpassed the quality of  _his_  tailor. It accentuated the slimness of his waist and worse, the curve of his ass even he hadn’t known existed. Wouldn’t have known either, had Grindelwald not grabbed it the moment he saw him in those trousers.

One look around the room and Graves knew he couldn’t say no. These men and women were counting on him, and although they had let  _him_  down by failing to note his kidnapping, he couldn’t hold that against them now. Not when Goldstein was slowly bleeding out, eyes hazy.

All around the back wall, the room was lined with Grindelwald’s sneering followers - and Graves couldn’t help but growl knowing that between the enchanted earrings sapping his magic (his ears  _still_  throbbed, the bastard) and the vast number of hostages, he could do nothing but play along.

“Fine.”

Grindelwald smiled, flared one hand in an elegant twist, then held it out for him to take as music began to play. And not just any music. [Tango.](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DiW71-sVyMzM&t=MTBjZmMyNzE0MDgxNGZkNDkwZmZkOGI1OWUyZGNhZjMwY2IyNTBjOSx6bHVNMGhLZA%3D%3D&b=t%3AfXClSpRsV9X-YZ8oN9fI8w&p=http%3A%2F%2Ffunkzpiel.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F162648146169%2Fnatecchi-you-know-what-id-love-to-see&m=1)

“Perhaps I don’t know how to dance,” Graves muttered as he begrudgingly took Grindelwald’s hand, lips curled in a sneer he couldn’t control. “I hope you don’t mind a little foot pain. I’ve been told I have two left feet.”

But no sooner was his hand in hand did Grindelwald yank him close, the suddenness catching him off guard enough for the taller man to sneak one hand around his waist and meld the two of them together at the hips. 

“I’ve been inside your mind, Percival,” Grindelwald purred maliciously into his ear, just tall enough to loom. “I  _know_  you can dance.”

“Bastard,” Graves growled beneath his breath as one hand moved from his lower back to grasp his ass and  _squeeze_. And without considering the repercussion, he slammed his heel onto the dark wizard’s immaculately gleaming shoe. 

Only to earn a hiss and a sharp nip to his earlobe, right next to his aching piercing. 

It made him stagger, giving Grindelwald the moment he needed to start their dance, moving with the vigor of a beast - and Graves, unable to stop the momentum, was forced to participate lest he fall. All at once, Grindelwald was driving him backward, Graves’ legs moving nigh of their own accord,  instantly falling into instinct because what Grindelwald said was true.

Graves knew how to dance. Danced, because it was a form of stress relief for him to have such perfect and immaculate control of his body. To force energy through his muscles to execute perfect twists and spins and dips. It required total focus of mind and body - and that was the only way Graves could stop thinking about work.

So his feet fell into the rhythm in the same way an ocean fell into the rhythm of the tide; naturally and without conscious thought. 

Large hands squeezed at his hips, and even through his clothing Graves could feel the bruises start to blossom. Lips a breath from his. He gasped as Grindelwald guided him through a tight, powerful spin and dipped him, accentuating their slight height difference, and purred into his mouth.

“See? You’re a natural.”

Graves growled, then spitefully rolled his hips. Grindelwald shuddered, their weight shifting as his knee tremored, and Graves smirked. 

“Try to keep up,” Graves said, then forced Grindelwald back; and this time it was him that was leading the charge, crowding Grindelwald’s footwork with his own to lead him where he wanted him. He slid behind Grindelwald, leading him through a twisting series of side steps, before the dark wizard suddenly seised his hand like a vice, twisted their momentum, and led Graves back into a spin that brought them crouch to crouch once more.

“Do remember your place, Percival,” Grindelwald said with a cruel nip to Graves’ bottom lip, cruel enough to make him yelp, and suddenly Graves could taste copper. “I won’t tell you again.”

A lick across Graves’ open mouth, then one to clean Grindelwald’s lips of Graves’ blood, and the director shivered angrily. 

The music lurched, and automatically Graves felt his legs twist behind him - left, right, left - tightening his pants gorgeously around his ass, and he flushed knowing what it must look like as he danced a woman’s steps as Grindelwald held still, bracing him by his slender hips so he might properly fulfill his half of the dance.

“You look lovely like this,” Grindelwald purred as he led Graves through one, two, three spins and seized his opportunity after to use Graves’ moment of disorientation against him and grind his crotch against the sharp jut of Graves’ hip, rocking him in a distinct and tight wave. “You’re a much better follower than a leader, pet.”

Graves licked the blood from his lip, bared his teeth and raised one hand to lace him fingers into the short hairs at the back of Grindelwald’s neck and  _tug._  Were it even a little more violent, it would have been insubordinate of their deal. But it was not nearly so soft as to be part of their dance. 

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Graves said, breathy, hair parting from his immaculate look to tremble before his eyes in little wisps. 

A knee between his legs and suddenly  _friction_ , and Graves had to take a step back to breathe - in doing so, letting go of his grip on Grindelwald’s hair.

Grindelwald smiled, and in his eyes Graves only saw heat and hunger and the desire to devour, to destroy, to wreck. To tear Graves down to his foundations, as though he were the embodiment of MACUSA itself.

He had no more than a moment before Grindelwald was crowding him viciously, hands tugging him forward maliciously by the hips, jerking him, making him gasp despite himself. Hands on his cheeks pulled him closer and led him through a tight set of legwork that left him wholly focused on their dance lest he trip and kill them all.

Grindelwald twisted until he was behind him, hands at his hips again to draw and keep him close, and Graves was suddenly bared to the room - chest heaving, sweating, as several dozen eyes watched him widely. 

Captivated as he was by their weight, he didn’t feel Grindelwald’s hands move until it was too late, fingers dipping into the top of his dress shirt to pop the first few buttons in a sudden, fierce row - exposing the sharp dip between his collarbones and the beginning of his chest. 

Lips at his jaw, teeth on his skin, cruelty on the breath that kissed him.

“They will never see you as a leader again,” he sneered, but for all the poison the words were filled with, the tone was hungry and eager. 

Graves quickly pulled one hand over his own shoulder to lace behind Grindelwald’s neck and yank him closer so that Graves might snarl into his shocked lips, “You’re going to have to try a lot harder than that to break me.”

And when their eyes met, neither had anything but steel and brimstone and simmering heat for the other. 

“Good,” Grindelwald said as the music whispered to an end. “I’d hate for the fun to be over so soon.”


	28. Pain or Pleasure?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summary: Every night, Grindelwald comes to Graves's cell and asks, "Pain or Pleasure?" He lets graves choose.   
> Warnings: NSFW, Kidnapping, Torture, Dub-Con, Mindfuck  
> Pairing: Gellert Grindelwald x Percival Graves (Grindelgraves)

Graves counts the days easily, because Grindelwald visits him like clockwork. Every night, after work, whiskey hot on his tongue, Grindelwald releases him in a twirl of smoke from his cigarette case prison and brings him to his knees on the plush carpet of his library. His clothes are in tatters, his wrists bound behind his back in a pair of thorny elegant cuffs; cuffs that tighten if he uses magic, poison on their tips that paralyze him for an hour or two when he tries. His feet are bare, his stubble is growing in, his hair is an untidy parody of the precise and meticulous look Grindelwald has stolen from him.

But for a moment, he basks in the feel of the fire place’s warmth at his back and closes his eyes - he knows what is to come. It makes the mere seconds of bliss all the more worth cherishing. 

“What will it be tonight, Mr. Graves?” Grindelwald asks clinically, neither cold nor warm nor particularly entertained. He knows what Graves will choose. It is what he has chosen every night since his capture. “Pain or Pleasure?”

When Graves swallows, it clicks dry in his throat. He clenches his jaw and slowly opens his eyes to glare at his enemy.

“Pain.”

“As you wish,” is all Grindelwald says as he stands, glass still in hand, and rises to tower over Graves’ spot on the carpet - tired and aching and shivering, but chin held high. When he holds the glass out to Graves, it is a surprise. The amber liquid at its bottom is a warmth he wants inside him. A release he desperately seeks, but cannot have. But he is so close to at least a little something to dull the Pain. He licks his lips, eyes on the glass, the way it sparkles in the firelight - unaware of the gaze that follows his tongue.  

It’s so close to him, it would be easy to lean forward. To latch his lips upon it and let Grindelwald pour. Potential poisoning be damned. 

Instead, he closes his eyes and turns his cheek away. He tries to ignore the disappointed clucking of Grindelwald’s tongue as he then takes the drink away and finishes it in a loud, thick swallow.

“Suit yourself.”

He brings him Pain. He doesn’t Crucio him any more, not like he used to. If there is one thing that Graves has learned about his enemy, it’s that he hates to be bored. Every night is a new terror. One night, he merely beats him with his fists until he’s so swollen he can’t breathe or see, his ribs broken - then heals him and does it again. Another night, he shoves a hallucinogenic down Graves’ throat and watches him as he tries to hold the skin of his arms together, unable to stop it from falling off in thick swathes only to reveal it never fell off at all. He charms an item to work like a Dementor’s presence; binds Graves in elegant chains and places it next to him, letting it feed off what little happiness he has left until he’s staring blankly at the ceiling, tears long since dried. He strips him of his clothes and lets him freeze in his prison. He layers him in blankets and lets him boil. He performs curses that set his nerves on fire. He pulls memories from his mind like nails from his fingers and makes him question if they ever happened at all.

Finally, one night, Graves snarls from the library carpet, “Whatever you’re looking for, I won’t give it to you. Just kill me already, you’re wasting your time.”

“My dear director,” Grindelwald purrs from his high backed seat, elbows on his knees, tumbler of scotch in his hands. “You’re missing the point entirely. Now, what will it be? Pain or Pleasure?”

“P—“ He licks his lips and tries to ignore the way Grindelwald’s pupils dilate or the way he suddenly leans forward. Finally he sags and croaks, “Pain.”

“As you wish,” is all Grindelwald says, a sigh heavy on his lips, and stands. It’s been a few nights since there’s been enough left over in his glass to offer Percival, but this time when the tumbler is offered to him, Graves shuffles forward on his knees and gently sets his lips upon it, shame a heavy burden in his belly that he hopes the liquor will burn away.

Grindelwald doesn’t tip the glass at first, not right away. He makes Graves acknowledge his decision. Waits until finally, with an angry and shameful shiver, Graves looks up his lashes to meet his gaze.

Grindelwald tips the glass kindly, slowly, so that Graves might savor it. He’s attentive to Graves’ body language. He doesn’t stop him from taking as much as he wants, nor does he shove the remains down his throat. When Graves is done, he merely sets it on the table, as he always does. 

And then he brings him Pain. 

Pain becomes his midnight, his witching hour. Nights a dreadful thing that hold nothing but agony for him. But at the end of every session, Grindelwald is kind in collecting him up off the floor and returning him to his prison. Fingers soft where they heal the worst of his injuries - preparing him for tomorrow.

“Remember that you chose this, Mr. Graves,” he always says. “It doesn’t have to be this way.”

His kindness lingers long after he leaves, like the gentle burn of the fireplace at Graves’ back, and he wonders if anyone is looking for him. If anyone can see him like Grindelwald can. He shivers and waits for midnight.

Every night he asks for Pain. Every night he shivers before the fire, takes his drink, and bears Grindelwald’s cruelty. But the days drag on and no one has noticed. Grindelwald does not rub it in. Doesn’t say a thing, in fact, other than this:  _it doesn’t have to be this way._

He tells Graves as he tortures him all the lovely things he has in mind for the future, once he has taken over the magical community. He never reveals actual plans, nothing significant. Just his dreams, his desires. And when that topic of conversation runs thin, he begins to speak of new dreams.

Dreams of a different life for Percival. 

“I wish you could see it as I see it, Percival,” Grindelwald says as he carves the Deathly Hollows into Graves’ back, heedless of the way Graves writhes even though Graves tries his best not to. “A wizard as strong as you deserves freedom to execute the law with abandon. Imagine how much more efficient you would be if you didn’t have to worry about Muggles or their prying eyes? Imagine the power you could fight with. You’re an extraordinarily powerful man, director, I know even wandless how much you hold back. Curtailing yourself to fit inside their pathetic little box. Telling you to do your job to the best of your ability while simultaneously tying your hands behind your back and leading you to slaughter.”

Graves does not speak. He’s learned long ago that it will not change Grindelwald’s mind. Instead he bites his lip and bears the Pain, bears the knife, bears the truth of Grindelwald’s words. 

“You might have bested me all those nights ago in the alley, if not for the Muggles in their apartments and your concern of the risk of exposure. You could be  _so much more_.”

Graves licks his lip, split from his teeth, tasting copper.

“Just because you have a weapon doesn’t mean you should always use it,” Graves finally says. Above him from the place Grindelwald straddles him, his captor stills - knife frozen in the meat of his flesh. 

“And where has that ideology brought you?” Grindelwald croons softly, apologetically. “Here, beneath me - captive when you should be ruling the world.”

“Life doesn’t work like that.”

“Only because that is what you have chosen.”

The words haunt him as Grindelwald collects him gently into his arms and leads him back into his prison. They echo in his head long after he is gone. The truth that all the Pain in Graves life exists not because life is cruel, but because Graves has chosen to put himself in the middle of it. 

“What will it be tonight, director?” Grindelwald asks above a glass of rum and a splash of something sweet. “Pain or Pleasure?”

“Pa—“ and his throat closes. He bows his head and tries to force the word from his lungs, but his body is a weak and aching and writhing thing, and he just wants to enjoy the bliss of the fire a little longer. Something rises in his throat, low and mournful, and he realizes it’s a confused moan. 

Suddenly, Grindelwald is kneeling before him - hands wet and cool from the condensation of his glass when he frames Graves’ jaw in his palms and forces him to look at him. His eyes flicker across his face, and Graves realizes Grindelwald is searching for something.

“Yes?” Grindelwald asks, softly, patiently. And more than ever, he wants his aurors to burst through the door. To stop him.

To stop his traitorous tongue. 

He’s shaking so hard he feels he might fall apart if not for the laces of Grindelwald’s fingers holding him together. His eyes are pleading. Asking Grindelwald to decide for him,  _please, please, please._

But this is Grindelwald’s greatest torture. He will not be to blame for Graves’ choices.

“What will it be?”

A thumb passes along his jaw, scraping at his stubble, and it is kind in a way that nothing has been, and Graves feels naked before the only gaze that seems able to acknowledge his existence.

“Pa—“ he tries again, but a sob is just behind it. He bares his teeth and shudders, muscles tight. Grindelwald wants no information. He doesn’t want his humiliation or his memories or his life. Graves has nothing to give him. There is nothing to be lost from giving in. Nothing to be gained from bearing his tortures. 

Despite himself, he leans into the kindness of Grindelwald’s touch and whimpers soft, as though if he said it quietly enough, it would make it less of a loss: “Pleasure”.

A hand at the back of his throat, large and tight and calming - pulling him forward into an embrace he knows all too well from all the nights that Grindelwald has carried him. 

“As you wish,” Grindelwald says into his ear, and it almost sounds as relieved as Graves feels.

But as Pain is not simply one Pain to suffer, Pleasure is not simply one Pleasure. It is a night of Pleasure. A night of pulling Graves apart with his fingers and his tongue. A night of making his thighs quake, a night of making his toes curl, a night of making his back arch. A night of pulling high and needy whines neither of them thought him capable of from his throat. A night of swollen, kiss pink lips and eager tongues - and Graves sinks into it, because it’s not the Pain, the Pain, the Pain. A hot mouth around his cock, fingers in his hole - easing him open in ever widening circles. Filled by a girthy length, made to come again and again and again as cock and fingers alike stroke his prostate to completion.

And when the night is done and the Pleasure over, he promises he won’t do it again. But when he sleeps he’s sore, but not aching. When he dreams he’s screaming, but not because it hurts. When he wakes he’s heartbroken - because he doesn’t want the Pain even though he promised.

“What will it be tonight?” Grindelwald asks, only to raise his brows the second “Pain” tumbles from Graves lips like a punishment he eagerly deserves.

“As you wish.”

He didn’t wish it. He doesn’t. It hurts, it hurts,  _it hurts._

“What will it be tonight?”

“P-“ he bites down the sob threatening to build in his throat or the way his hips ache to be touched. “Pain.”

A sigh.

“As you wish.”

Gentle hands at his brow, helping him through it. 

“It doesn’t have to be like this, Percival.”

He wishes it didn’t. He does, he does; but he cannot submit again.

He’s lost count of the days.

He’s forgotten their faces.

The Pain has burned his life away.

“What will it be tonight?”

Graves stares at his knees.

He waits.

He hears Grindelwald shift in his seat until he’s kneeling before him as he had all those nights ago, hands chill from the glass - the wetness on his thumbs hiding Graves’ tears. 

“Percival,” Grindelwald says, and it nearly sounds like begging. “What do you choose?”

And when finally he looks up, he can barely see Grindelwald through the wall of his tears hanging hot and heavy on his lashes - obscured until finally, they spill. Hot lines down his face, the face that was so easily stolen from him.

At least when he cries, there’s only one man to see it. No one else even knows that he’s gone, let alone crying. 

“Help me,” he says, because he doesn’t know how to make it stop.

“Help me,” he says, because he doesn’t know how to let it go.

“Help me,” he says, because he  _wants, he wants, he wants._

“What do you choose?” Grindelwald urges, and it is Graves first step toward freedom.

“Pleasure.”

“As you wish.”


	29. His Muggle | Gramander

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU Where Newt never meets Jacob. Instead he runs into a Muggle cop named Percival Graves, drawing him into a world of magic and facing the consequences neither of them were prepared for.

He jumped in front of him. This muggle that didn’t know Newt from Adam, who had never seen anything remotely magical a single day in his life, who had been living a normal life a mere day ago - he didn’t even blink. Just threw himself in front of an oncoming spell from one of the aurors (who had it all wrong, by the way) with full knowledge of the fact that magic was beyond his comprehension and could quite literally do anything to him. Shrink him, maim him, break his bones, turn him to dust.

Steal his final breath from his lungs.

Newt can only watch as the spell meant for him carves the poor muggle cop’s leg up like claws rent through butter. The man throws his head back and he howls, the force of it shuddering his throat, because there is nothing on him, and yet it feels like a creature tearing his leg from his body.

Newt has never moved so efficiently. He wipes the aurors away with his hands, not his wand, and tries not to read too much into the source of that energy as he gathers his muggle into his arms, heart heavy when strong hands shake and grab handfuls of his coat, and he disapparates them both before another spell can fall upon them.

They end up back at the cop’s humble little flat, the only person in this city who has shown him any hospitality - even if only shortly after bringing him to a muggle police station for questioning.

Blood ruins the carpet, and the man has taken on a snowy look that frightens Newt. He’s so pale, Newt wouldn’t be surprise if he began to frost over. He shakes, too. Hard, quivering shudders that ripple through his skin and tremble his hair. He looks small. So much smaller than when he had first met him. This larger than life muggle, this man who was so much more interesting than most wizards Newt had met.

Now a shaking mess on the floor.

“Hold on,” Newt says, and he opens his case,gathers the cop up again, and takes them both into the bowels of his home. Were it another time, the wide eyed wonder on the man’s face would have pleased him. As it is, he has to assure the man that no, he had not died, and as he descends he can hear the fear in the man’s voice as he tries to breathe through the pain. Newt lowers him onto his meager cot and gathers his supplies. Twine, needles, his very best elixirs, and even though he’s quick he does not turn to find his muggle still awake.

The night is long. It is filled with moans and intermittent healing magic Newt wishes he practiced more. It is filled with wet, hazy eyes and ruined sheets. Thread through flesh, wounds too deep for magic to heal, but shallow enough to save. And when it is done, and the sun begins its rise outside his case and the cop’s flat, Newt collapses into a chair beside the cot and melts.

His muggle’s lashes flutter prettily, and then suddenly there are brown eyes upon him, hazy but there.

“You saved me.”

Newt swallows.

“You saved me.”

The man licks his lips and Newt can here his throats click when he swallows. With a flick of his hand, he summons water to his muggle and watches him calmly pluck it from the air even despite what magic has done to him.

“I don’t understand,” the cop says after a long moment, eyes on his glass.

“What?”

“How you make magic look so wonderful, and yet it also did this…”

Newt purses his lips.

“Are you… afraid of me now? Of my kind?”

The muggle looks up at him behind his lashes, and it is the first time Newt has thought of him as young.

“Some of you,” he admits, and Newt looks away as though struck. As though some lasting fear had been confirmed. He had hoped…

He doesn’t know what he had hoped.

“But,” the man says, “I suppose it’s kind of like any other weapon, isn’t it? It’s not the weapon that’s frightening, it’s who’s holding it. This,” he says, gesturing to his leg, “The fact that this is possible, it scares me shitless. But you? No. I’m not afraid of you, Newt. A man that loves his creatures as much as you wouldn't… wouldn’t abuse his gifts.”

Newt sucks in a breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding. It feels like a vice freeing from around his heart, and he wonders when precisely he had begun to care about this man’s opinion. This man who his kind would obliviate without a second thought. This man who was not allowed to be apart of his life…

“I… I’m sorry. You were helping me and I let you get hurt, I-”

“-Hey. You didn’t let me. I made my choices,” the muggle says, grabbing Newt by his forearm firmly, but kindly, and even now he still looks so pale. “And for what it’s worth, I’d do it again.”

“I drew you into something you never should have had to worry about,” Newt laments.

“My job was hardly safe before this. And it’s my job to help people. Just because you can move things with your mind doesn’t mean you’re suddenly not a person. You needed help and I helped. It’s what I do. It’s why I became a cop.”

Newt doesn’t understand why his eyes get wet, but they do. He tries to smile, but it shakes.

“I wish everyone thought like that,” Newt says softly. “Your people and mine.”

“Me too.”

Newt nods, then clenches his hands on his knees and rises.

“I should let you get your rest, Mr. Graves. I’ll wake you when it’s time for another pain elixir.”

A hand catches him by the wrist, and he dreads meeting those brown eyes, because the more he sees them the more he realizes he is going to miss them.

“Please,” he says, “Call me Percival. We’ve saved each other at this point, I think that puts us on a first name basis by now, doesn’t it?”

And Newt doesn’t want to. He clears his throats and he nods, he agrees, but he can’t say the name. He keeps his eyes askance, and the man lets him go. He thinks his muggle cop has finally given up on him, and he hates how much that hurts, but then movement catches his attention and a groan. His cop is making room for him.

“Mr. Graves, you don’t have to–!”

“This is your bed, isn’t it? There’s more than enough room. Please.”

He shouldn’t. This man can’t last. They’ll take him. He was supposed to be a tool, someone to help him navigate New York without hounding him about his creatures and what was or was not legal. It wasn’t – he wasn’t supposed to be so…

Perfect.

He shouldn’t climb into bed, but he is tired. His bones are a weary, weightless sigh beneath his skin and laying down has never felt so good. The muggle turns so he is on his side, and so does Newt, and together they stare at each other for a long time. Memorizing each other.

“Why won’t you call me Percival?” He asks.

Newt sighs. Closes his eyes.

“Because that would make you real,” he says, “And I’m already going to miss you.”

And when he opens his eyes, Percival is smiling - small and genuine. Warm like a fire in a kind hearth.

“I’m going to miss you too, Newt.”

Newt smiles, but it trembles. He cannot meet his eyes.

‘No you won’t,’ he thinks, and it’s terribly unfair that this man will forget, but Newt will carry on.

Newt will remember that a man like Percival Graves exists in this world, and like many things he loves, society has deemed it illegal for him to love him.

 

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [【代发】一篇仿写 by inyoureyes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13445802) by [liangdeyu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/liangdeyu/pseuds/liangdeyu)




End file.
